


Every Word Not Spoken To You

by turps



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Hooker Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-09
Updated: 2011-07-09
Packaged: 2017-10-21 04:50:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 56,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turps/pseuds/turps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Ryan and Mikey centric hooker AU.</p><p><i>When Mikey has to leave home Frank insists on going along too. Together they make a new life, until Frank gets sick and everything changes.</i></p><p>In his fight to pay hospital bills and just keep going, Mikey makes some difficult choices, not all of which are necessarily for the best. Along the way he meets new people, including Jon, Pete, Bob, Ray and Lindsey, but especially Ryan and Spencer, who are there to catch him when Mikey hits rock bottom.</p><p>This is a story about strength and a will to keep going, about friendship and how it comes from the most unlikely of places. About how when you most need it, someone will hold out a hand</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Word Not Spoken To You

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to arsenicjade who initially helped me plan out this idea, to hammerhead22 who read and caught any Briticisms, and most of all to themoononastick who's been with me every step of the way, both as beta and cheerleader. You're all amazing. Thank you.
> 
> Warnings: R/Dub-con which could be seen as non-con, descriptions of injuries/medical care, references to past addictions.
> 
> In story art done by Squashbee.

Frank’s asleep when Mikey says, "I'm leaving tomorrow."

Deliberate, Mikey's keeps his voice low, a whisper of sound against Frank’s deep, regular, breathing.

Frank’s got his arm pushed under the pillow and the blanket they’re sharing has slipped down, exposing Frank’s bare shoulder. All Mikey wants to do is reach out and touch. He craves the reassurance of contact, but at the same time, this is a confession that needs distance, Mikey making this first move toward leaving.

Mikey curls his fingers into a tight fist, staring into the darkness as he finally admits, “I’ve tried, but I can’t. Not anymore.”

Which is selfish, Mikey knows that. But if he does stay, when Gerard goes down he’s going to pull Mikey along with him, and Mikey can’t allow that to happen. He _won’t_ let it happen, even if it feels like his heart’s breaking.

“I can’t watch him die.” The words catch, thoughts made brutally real, and Mikey’s all too aware that finally, he’s been pushed past his limit.

“He’s not going to die.” Frank’s reply is unexpected, and he sounds fierce, too much so for someone that should have been sleeping. It’s too much for right now, the softness of night cut through by Frank’s barely controlled fear. “You don’t have to go. Fucked up doesn’t mean dead.”

Frank’s turning to face Mikey, and Mikey’s inching away, needing the distance as his carefully constructed convictions threaten to crumble.

“Not always.” That’s something Mikey has to admit, but he remembers Gerard’s hands shaking when he first wakes, the incoherence and self-hatred, the way over time Gerard as a person has been eroded and replaced and defined by dependence. Which is the main issue. Mikey can deal with the clean-ups and bodily hauling Gerard from harm, it’s the blankness that gets him. The fact when he looks at Gerard he knows he’s already lost his big brother. “But this time, yeah.”

Frank’s staring at Mikey, as if assessing what he’s not saying, and then says blankly, “So you’re leaving.”

“I have to.” Right now it’s all Mikey can say, reality crushing as he tries to think how to explain, condensing weeks worth of internal debate so they fit into this moment. When Mikey finally admits his last hope. “I keep picking him up when he falls, and if I do that he’s never going to stop. If I go now he might see what he’s doing, he might finally wake up.”

Frank props himself up on his elbow. “That’s a fucking big risk.”

“I know.” And Mikey does know. He knows that he’s kidding himself by thinking his leaving will get through to Gerard, but it’s a hope Mikey holds onto, no matter how flimsy. “I can’t stay Frank. I don’t want to hate him, and I will if I don’t go.”

“That’s... No. _Fuck_.” Frank grips hold of Mikey's arm, like he can physically stop him from ever leaving this bed. "You don't have to, you can stay here. Mom will let you. We have room."

More than anything Mikey wants to say yes, grabbing hold of this compromise that would let him stay in a place that he knows, with people who’ve been there for him always. Except, it’s a solution that would also include Gerard, who’d be _just there_ , too close for Mikey to make the break that he needs -- that they both need. “I need to get away. I can’t.”

For a long moment Frank remains silent, as if he’s thinking what to say. Then he brings up his hand, his fingers brushing against the sweat-damp hair at the nape of Mikey's neck. Frank takes a deep breath and says, "Then I'm coming with you."

"What? No." Mikey pulls back, his eyes opening wide as he stares at Frank, guilt hitting already. "You've got school, and your mom needs you."

"So do you," Frank says, as if stating a simple fact. "We can go tomorrow night, when mom goes to work."

Relief mixes with the still building guilt, Mikey knowing he should be telling Frank no, that he needs to stay here. What Mikey does is say, “Yeah.”

~*~*~

They empty their bank accounts and leave less than twenty-four hours later.

Frank's carrying his backpack and leaves a long letter for his mom.

Mikey takes a backpack too. His note for Gerard says simply _I'm sorry_.

~*~*~*~

 

The first weeks are hard.

It takes five days of living in a crappy hotel and walking the streets until they find jobs willing to take them on with no references or without need of permanent addresses. Even longer to find a place to live where the deposit is something they can actually afford with the money they’ve saved up between them.

They end in a one room apartment containing a hot-plate, a rickety sofa-bed and a tiny bathroom shoe-horned into a corner. It’s an apartment paid by the week and Mikey's all too aware of the money they need -- rent and food and bills -- and each day they seem to give up more. Magazines and music and eventually, when their scant joined savings are gone, anything that's in any way considered a luxury; like fresh fruit or vegetables, an icy cold soda at the end of a hot day.

It's more surviving than living, but even then Mikey's happy -- happier. He's got a job waiting tables at a local diner, a place to sleep, and while he's mourning the loss of his brother he doesn't miss the man Gerard had become. Mostly though, Mikey's got Frank, and that makes up for the cold nights and long days, the way they're constantly struggling for money.

Until Mikey begins to lose Frank too.

It's little things at first. Frank comes home from his job at the bakery and collapses on the sofa, his mouth open against the ratty material, the spring that sticks out of one side dangerously close to his cheek as he sleeps. Each time it happens, Mikey covers him with a blanket and sits on the floor, reading one of the newspapers that always get left behind at the diner.

Days pass and Mikey gets used to sleeping on the floor, his body stiff and Frank still exhausted when Mikey wakes him with coffee and dry toast. There’s nothing Mikey can do but watch, worried as Frank slowly sits up, his hand against his chest as he takes a few bites and then pushes the toast to one side.

Mikey's worried out of his mind and he begs Frank to call his mom, but he always replies no, that he'll be fine with rest and some sleep. Frank _promises_ Mikey that he'll be okay, and Mikey forces himself to believe him. It's the only reason he leaves the apartment when Frank calls in sick and ends up huddled on the sofa under a blanket and all of their clothes, white-faced and shivering as Mikey reluctantly puts on his uniform.

Mikey's gone for ten hours. When he gets back he finds Frank collapsed on the floor.

~*~*~*~http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v240/turps332/BBB%20art/divider_transparent.png” border=“0” alt=“Photobucket”>

"You should go home, he'll be sleeping for a while."

The nurse checking Frank's IV adjusts the flow and notes down some figures on a chart which he hangs over the end of the bed. When he's done he looks over at Mikey, and Mikey sees that he's got a name tag attached to his tunic. It says, Jon, there's a sticker of a ginger cat at the end of the name.

Mikey's been sitting in this same chair for nearly six hours. His back's throbbing and his head feels like it's going to explode. He curls his fingers around Frank's hand, hoping that this time Frank will respond. He doesn't, and Mikey's eyes are burning.

"Seriously, you'll feel better if you go home and get some sleep," Jon says, looking at Mikey. "We'll look after him, promise."

It's not that Mikey thinks they won't. It's just, he _left_ Frank and Frank nearly died. Gasping for breath as Mikey served burgers and fries, took his break and sent messages that never received a reply. Mikey can't leave him now and he tightens his grip, ready to plead. "I can't leave him."

There's a silence, Jon looking between Mikey and Frank. Then he glances at the watch that hangs next to his badge. "I'm on shift until six. I'll bring you a blanket."

"Thank you," Mikey says, and keeps staring at Frank's face, hoping to see some indication that he's about to wake. So far there's been nothing and it's almost like Mikey's watching a stranger, Frank's skin deathly pale and his features so still. Which is wrong, because Frank's made for easy grins and amusement. Not this, caught in a state between living and death. Teeth digging into his bottom lip, Mikey reminds himself that Frank isn't dead, that Mikey got him here in time.

"Here." A blanket is settled over Mikey's shoulders and Jon crouches down, one hand on Frank's bed as he looks over at Mikey. "There's some leftovers in the break room, they're not up to much but if you're hungry."

Mikey shakes his head, even the thought of food making him feel sick.

"Okay." Jon stands and rests his hand on Mikey's shoulder. "I'll be back later."

He leaves the room and Mikey clutches the blanket closed in one hand, preparing to wait.

~~~~~

"You're still awake?" Jon glances over at Mikey as he begins to check Frank yet again. Oxygen flow, temperature, blood pressure, they're things Mikey's watched him do all night and Jon yawns as he writes down this latest set of figures. "Sorry, I haven't been on nights long, it still catches up with me at times."

"Do you like it?" Mikey asks, not for any real desire to know, just he wants to keep Jon talking, listen to something other than the beep of monitors and Frank's laboured breathing.

Outside the sun is starting to rise and Jon stands close to the window, looks out at the darkened buildings that stretch into the distance. Eventually he says, "I like helping people."

It's not a real answer to the question, not really, but Mikey lets it go, too tired to think about hidden meanings or any ambiguity from someone he doesn't even know. He looks at his watch seeing it's a few hours until the start of his shift at the diner. Mikey knows there's no way he's going in today.

Jon's still standing close to the window and he turns to Mikey and says, "Are you sure there's no one you want to call?"

Truthfully, Mikey wants nothing more than to call Gerard, and he knows he should call Frank's mom. He's came close a few times, finger held over the call button but each time he remembers Frank making him promise not to. But that was then and Mikey can't help thinking that Linda _should_ know. It's yet another thing to worry about and Mikey's about done, so exhausted that all he wants is for someone to lie and say things will be okay.

Seeing that Jon's watching, his expression worried, Mikey takes a deep breath and curls his hands, fingernails digging into his palms. "There's no one. I'm okay."

Jon doesn't look convinced, but he heads for the door. "I'll be going off shift soon. I'll get you some breakfast first."

"I'm not...."

"Not hungry, I know," Jon says, cutting Mikey off. "But you need to eat something or you'll be in the bed next to Frank."

He leaves then, and Mikey tries not to think how good an actual bed sounds.

~*~*~*~

Getting involved with a pimp was never part of Ryan's plans, especially one as controlling as Walt.

In fact, nothing about his present situation was part of Ryan's plans. He'd intended to become a famous writer or some kind of rock star, his thoughts full of dreams about leaving school and making his mark on the world -- and he has. The problem is, the mark he's made is one that comes with a helping of shame. Ryan’s learned that dreams are for other people, and sometimes you just have to do what you can in order to survive. Which is fine, Ryan can rationalise his choices always, it's just, he'll never be able to forgive himself for dragging Spencer down with him.

"Wake up, we need to go soon," Spencer says, and tugs at Ryan's hair. They're lying on the bed they share in their rented room and all Ryan wants to do is close his eyes and sleep.

Sighing, he rolls onto his side and then pushes himself up, bare feet on the worn carpet. "You suck."

"You know it," Spencer says, moving into the warm space Ryan left behind. Head resting on his arm he watches as Ryan starts to pull on his shoes. "Walt still making you work Fifth tonight?"

"Yeah." Ryan fastens one sneaker, ensuring the lace is tight. He's not looking forward to tonight, Fifth Street is part of an unknown area and the thought of being away from the others is troubling. Not that Ryan can protest, he has to do what Walt says, and that means going out and taking on the new territory.

Spencer's frowning as he looks at Ryan. "I'm going to ask Walt if I can go with you."

"I'll be fine," Ryan says, because the last thing he wants is Spencer to approach Walt. There's no point rocking the boat and Ryan _will_ be fine, he's worked alone before and will do so again, especially if it means Spencer gets to stay on familiar territory with people who'll watch his back. Second sneaker fastened Ryan falls back, landing heavily on Spencer. "It could be a gold mine night, full of johns with deep pockets and vanilla tastes."

"It could," Spencer agrees, and if Ryan didn't know him so long he'd think Spencer actually believed what he was saying.

Ryan turns, his head against Spencer's. "I'll be okay."

"I know," Spencer says in reply.

~~~~

The new street isn't a gold mine, in fact, Ryan's beginning to think it's a total bust. Two hours and he hasn't had a second look, any people that are walking past do so with their eyes averted and steps hurried. It's making Ryan worry, if he goes back with no money he'll be in trouble, but there's no way he can leave this spot either. All he can do is hang on and hope that someone comes along, anyone who actually wants what Ryan can offer.

It doesn't help that being alone allows Ryan time to think. Usually he's distracted by the others but now all he's got are his own thoughts, a drafty corner and graffiti that he's already read at least twenty times. Ryan looks at a particular section, where black painted words bleed onto the wall. He thinks they're supposed to be part of some witty slogan or a tortured poem, Ryan isn't sure which one, but what he does know is they make no sense. Checking no one's around he rubs at his arms and stares at the words, mentally swapping and making additions until it's reading in a way that he likes. He swings around when he hears footsteps and someone clearing their throat.

"Do you know what time it is?" The guy asking isn't as old as Ryan's usuals, is dressed in a heavy winter coat and a scarf tied neatly around his neck. On first glance Ryan would think it was an innocent inquiry, except the guy's making no attempt to look at Ryan's face, just staring at his body and Ryan falls into his act, hip pushed forward and forcing a smile, desperate to land some money at last.

"Sorry, no watch," Ryan says, and holds out his arm. He rests his fingers against the man's sleeve. "But I know how to give you a good time."

The line is as clichéd as fuck, but Ryan knows that it'll work. He knows everything about the johns that hunt this city. The tells and aborted questions, the ones that want a quickie in a back alley and the ones that want more. This guy is one of those, it's there in the way he's breathing harshly, his whole body tense and still not looking at Ryan at all. To him Ryan's nothing, a body only, and it's no surprise when he says, "Come with me."

Ryan goes, following the man to a station wagon parked a little way up the road. Before he gets inside Ryan checks for weapons. It's a perfunctory check at best, limited to what Ryan can actually see, but it's better than nothing, and he only opens the door when the worst he sees is a candy wrapper and a plastic water pistol lying on the back seat.

Inside it's warm and the air smells of some kind of flower -- sunshine melody according to the label on the air freshener hanging from the mirror.

"I can have anything, right, as long as I pay?"

"Yeah," Ryan says, and he sits to the side on his seat, his back against the door. Outside he can see one of Walt's men, casually checking his phone like he's not really watching Ryan's every movement. Tempted to flip him off Ryan turns his attention to the john, watching and evaluating as the john fastens his seat belt and starts the car. Even over the sound of the engine Ryan can hear him breathe, harsh sounds that scream nerves and Ryan knows this is going to be a bad one. He rests his head against the window and looks outside, says nothing when the john reaches out and grabs hold of Ryan's crotch and squeezes.

~*~*~*~

"How's he doing?"

"Isn't it your job to tell me?" Mikey says, and he's clutching the blanket closed with one hand, cold despite the dry heat of the room.

"Yeah, but you know him better than me." As opposed to how Mikey saw him last, Jon looks refreshed, his smile easy as he picks up Frank's chart from the end of the bed. "You've been here all day?"

"Yeah," Mikey says, and he watches Jon's face, taking in every micro change in expression as he reads. Not that there's many, Jon's smile changing into a mask of professional detachment that Mikey wouldn't be able to read even if he was running at his best. Which Mikey isn't right now, not by a long shot. "He hasn't woken up yet."

"It’s taking him a lot of energy to fight this, his body needs the down time." Jon sets down the chart, his attention on Frank as he checks his IV and oxygen levels. Then he turns to Mikey, says, "Not the answer you wanted, huh?"

What Mikey wants is a reassurance that Frank will be fine. That he's going to wake up and tell Mikey that he wants to go home. But Mikey's not stupid, he knows that's not going to happen, and he looks at Jon, pushing past the weight in his chest as he tries to focus on the positives, the small changes he's noticed during the day.

"He's breathing a little easier." Not that it's a huge change, Frank's breathing is still painful to hear, but at least he's still not fighting for air. Even that small change is a relief, and Mikey tightens his hold on Frank's hand as he adds, "His lips aren't blue."

"That's good," Jon says, and unclips a pen from the pocket of his scrubs. Picking up the chart he writes something down and asks, "Anything else you've noticed?"

Surprised, Mikey looks away from Frank. "You're writing that shit down?"

"We're the only ones conscious in the room right now and I'm not asking myself," Jon says, and he taps his pen against the chart. "Like I said, you know him best."

Mikey thinks a moment, then says, "He moved a few hours ago, like he was dreaming. I thought...." Momentarily, Mikey tightens his hold on Frank's lax hand even further, then loosens his grip, afraid of crushing his fingers. "I thought he was waking up."

Jon writes again, and then sets down the chart, sliding the pen back onto his pocket. "His sats are better since this morning. Not by much, but they're moving in the right direction."

As reassurances go it's slim, but it's more than Mikey's had for close to a day, and for the first time in hours he widens his focus. Sitting back in the chair, Mikey looks at the clock that's positioned over the door to the room, noticing that already he's missed hours of his shift. "I should be serving burgers right now."

"You want to call your work?" Jon asks, and stands at the end of the bed, his attention turned from Frank to Mikey. "There's a pay phone at the end of the corridor, or I'll look away while you call from here."

"You're encouraging rule breaking?" Mikey asks, and the blanket falls off one shoulder as he rubs at his face and remembers the frantic dash to the ER. "And I couldn't call anyway, I left my phone at home."

Jon looks toward the door. "It's not a cast iron rule, more to keep things peaceful around here."

"It's too fucking peaceful," Mikey says, and he's anticipating each drip of the IV, each of Frank’s laboured breaths. Against those sounds Jon's voice is loud, bright and something new as he circles the bed and stands so he's close to Mikey.

"If you know the number you can use my phone. I'll go and get it."

Mikey does know the number, and he knows he should call. But if he doesn't there's no chance he'll be told he has to go in. If he doesn't he can stay in this room, taking time before dealing with money or worrying about calling Linda. If he doesn't he can stay here and keep on watching Frank breathe.

"Thank you," Mikey says, "But it's okay. I'll call later."

"If you change your mind," Jon says, and briefly he touches Mikey's shoulder before leaving the room.

~*~*~*~

Walking home from Fifth takes a long time. Not that Ryan cares. As nights go it's one of the good ones, not too cold and the moon is almost full, casting the sidewalk in a silvery light. Hands pushed into his pockets, Ryan keeps his fingers curled around the few bills he's allowed to keep and steps over the shadow of a trash-can, ensuring he clears it by inches. It's something that reminds him of another time, except then he was jumping shadows in the sunlight, and instead of crumpled ten dollar bills he had coins in his pocket, and Spencer close at his side.

Unlike now, when Spencer should be here but isn't. Ryan misses him, and especially misses knowing Spencer's as safe as he can be in their situation, which admittedly, isn't that safe at all. But if Ryan's there Spencer's _safer_ , and that's an important distinction.

Thinking of Spencer being alone, Ryan hurries his steps, stopping jumping shadows and concentrating on getting home fast, anxiety hitting hard as he allows his emotions to rise to the surface. It's something Ryan tries not to do. If you don't think you don't hurt, but right now Ryan can't help imagining every worst case scenario. The horror stories that he's seen or heard or lived through, and he's given up any pretence of walking now. Instead Ryan runs headlong for home.

Where he finds Spencer safe, sitting up in their bed, the blankets pulled up to his waist and reading a newspaper with a headline from two days before.

The newspaper falls to one side as Spencer kicks back the blankets and swings his legs out of the bed, reacting instantly as Ryan throws open the door. Reaching between the mattress and the wall, Spencer grabs hold of the length of pipe they keep there as he demands, "What's wrong?"

Doubled over, his hands braced on his knees, Ryan tries to steady his breathing, taking in enough air to ease his aching lungs as he looks through the veil of his hair and reassures himself that Spencer's okay, that he's _fine_. Still, Ryan needs to say the words, and he manages to ask, "You okay?"

"I'm not the one who's just raced in here like I was being chased by hell hounds," Spencer says, and he's gripping the pipe in one hand, hefting it as if he's still expecting someone to come bursting through the still-open door. Sitting on the side of the bed, Spencer pushes back Ryan's hair, his head tilted to one side as he looks at Ryan's face. "Is someone chasing you?"

"No." Ryan holds Spencer's gaze, concentrating on how tired he looks, the shadows under Spencer eyes. They're details that push past the feeling of shame, for allowing himself to be taken over by anxiety like some newbie fresh onto the streets, and Ryan's fingertips dig into his thighs as he straightens and goes to shut the door. "How did things go tonight?"

A pause, and then Spencer pulls back his hand and sets down the pipe onto the bed. "The usual Sunday trade. Mostly bjs, some fucker wanted to bareback but I told him no dice, even for what he was offering."

Personally, Ryan doesn't get the appeal of going without a rubber, but it's something they're asked to do often. It's also something neither Spencer or Ryan will do, no matter how much they need the money. Blatantly, he stares at Spencer from head to toe, checking for new bruises. "He didn't try to force you?"

Spencer frowns and shakes his head. "If he'd have tried I'd have punched him in the dick."

"A knee's more effective," Ryan says, and he sits next to Spencer, the pipe nestled between them. "I made thirty tonight, Fifth was a wasteland."

"Fuck," Spencer says bleakly, and then, "It's okay, we'll make it up tomorrow, and if we don't we can cut back on stuff."

Ryan wants to ask what. They're already cut back to bare basics on anything that counts. Surviving on the least amount of food possible and when needed taking things from dumpsters to eat or to read. It's that or losing this room, and as degrading as Ryan finds it to live how he does, at least this way they have a safe place to sleep.

The only thing he can think to do is plead his case to Walt, to get moved back to Spencer, or at least, to somewhere where he can actually make his usual amount of money. Ryan starts to unfasten his belt, pushing the prong through the self-made holes Ryan was forced to add. "I'll go see Walt in the morning. Ask to be moved."

"So I don't get to see him and you do?" Spencer's whole body is tense as he looks toward Ryan. "He wanted you there, if you ask to be moved he'll count it as a favor."

And another thing that Ryan owes Walt, the latest in a list that never seems to get any shorter. Pulling off his t-shirt, Ryan carefully folds it up and lays it on the chair at the side of the bed. "If I don't ask to be moved we could be down every night."

"And if you do you're in even deeper with that bastard." For a moment Spencer's anger flairs before he hides it away, taking a deep breath as he rests his fingers over the bruise on Ryan's side, one that bleeds out from his hip in a variety of colors. "We'll manage, even if you are down every night."

Ryan stands and takes off his pants, folds them up on top of his t-shirt and takes comfort in Spencer’s confidence, that despite this new set back they will be able to manage. Which they will, they always do.

Holding onto that thought, Ryan heads for the bathroom and a much needed shower, then stops in the doorway to say, “No stealing the blanket.”

“Like I’d do that,” Spencer says, and slides down in the bed, the blanket pulled up to his chin. “I’m warming it up for you.”

“Of course you are,” Ryan says, and then smiles.

 

~*~*~*~

"You haven't left here for over twenty-four hours now," Jon says, and he steps into the room, standing close to the doorway as he looks over to Mikey. "If you don't come with me I'm going to carry you out bodily."

Unimpressed, Mikey glances at Jon. "I could take you."

Jon puts up his fists, dancing from foot to foot. "I may be short but I'm scrappy."

"Also, insane," Mikey says, surprised when he feels himself smiling as Jon continues punching the air. It's a feeling that's welcome in some ways, but in most Mikey feels like it's wrong, like he's betraying Frank in some way. "And I've been out of the room."

Jon drops his hands, suddenly serious. "A few minutes to run to the bathroom doesn't count."

"I left the room," Mikey says again, because no matter what Jon says, Mikey has left Frank's side. "I also ate."

"At the risk of channeling my mom, a few slices of pizza isn't a meal." Jon looks at the clock over the door, and then checks the watched pinned to his scrubs, checking the time on that too. He waits, then says, "As of a few seconds ago I'm officially on my break. So I'm going to tell you look like shit and the last thing we need is to end up admitting you too. We have a bed shortage as it is."

Automatically, Mikey says, "I'm fine."

Jon takes hold of the blanket that Mikey's got wrapped around his shoulders. "Tell that to someone without a nursing degree."

"I thought you said you were a student," Mikey says, and grips hold of the edges of the blanket.

"I am." Jon tugs at the blanket, pulling it from Mikey's hand. "I also know what I'm talking about. Which is why you're coming down to the cafeteria with me and I'm going to buy you breakfast."

Mikey considers refusing, but he can tell that Jon's determined, and the last thing he wants is some physical scuffle. Especially when it's one he suspects he'd lose. There's also the fact that Mikey's hungry, his stomach growling as he thinks about actual hot food. Not that he's going to give in too easily, which could set some kind of precedent where Jon can order him around. "Frank needs me here."

"Frank's quite capable of lying still and being unconscious on his own," Jon says, and steps past Mikey to look at the machines that are clustered at the head of Frank's bed. "His readings are holding steady and if anything changes people will know."

"You're saying you're not the only nurse in this place?" Mikey says, but he's standing, his whole body aching from sitting so long.

Jon grins, says easily, "The only one that matters," as he heads toward the door. "Come on, if you wait too long the eggs turn into rubber."

"I might like them rubbery," Mikey says, and he leans over the side rail of the bed, talking directly at Frank. "I'm going for breakfast. If you die when I'm gone I'm going to be fucking annoyed."

Already in the corridor, Jon comes back inside. "You know he's not actually going to die?"

"I know he's a stubborn fucker who'd wait to die until I was gone," Mikey says, and while that's true what he doesn't say is, even if he's been told that Frank's getting better, that even the doctors are confident of an eventual recovery, that means nothing. It can't when Mikey knows all too well that life isn't fair and things can change in an instant. "He needs to know if he goes I'll just follow."

Jon runs his hand through his hair, his mouth opening then closing before he finally says, "I want to pretend I didn't hear that. Or that it's the exhaustion talking and you don't mean what you said."

Mikey shrugs one shoulder, because right now he means every word. "If it makes it easier...."

"It doesn't," Jon says, and for once there's no hint of his usual smile or professional detachment. "I'm going to buy you breakfast now, food and as much coffee as you can drink, then we're going to talk."

"Works for me," Mikey says, because no matter what Jon says, it doesn't mean Mikey will reply, or even listen.

~*~*~*~

Ryan's eyeing a display of magazines at the news-stand, reading the cover pages as the owner hovers, enough that Ryan's neck is prickling from having someone standing so close.

Despite the early hour and lack of sleep, Ryan's wide awake, too keyed up to stay in one place, and he's about to move on when he hears footsteps behind him and someone says, "Ryan, hi."

Ryan turns, and when he sees Lindsey his first reaction is to makes some kind of excuse and hurry away. It's the reaction he has always, because while Ryan doesn't dislike Lindsey, he finds her unnerving. She's too tied into the system for his comfort, and Ryan takes a step to the side, getting ready to go.

"I was just thinking of you," Lindsey says, and you makes no indication that she's noticed how Ryan's tensed up, pulled in on himself as she smiles, keeping space between them. "We're having a poetry slam, fund-raising for the center. I figured it would be your speed."

And that’s something else that makes Ryan uneasy, how Lindsey always seems to know things about the people she's trying to help. That Ryan would like poetry, that Spencer's favorite cupcake is chocolate. They're little things that mean nothing, apart from how Lindsey _shouldn't_ know them at all. Ryan takes another step away, says, "I'm busy."

"It starts early afternoon, you could leave before six," Lindsey says, and doesn't call Ryan on the fact she hasn't even given a date. "There'll be coffee and shit, free for the taking."

"You fund-raise by giving stuff away?" Ryan asks, trying to understand how that would even work.

Lindsey smiles, tapping her fingers against the messenger bag she's got slung across her chest. "It gets us publicity and brings in the sponsors. Coffee and cookies are a fair trade for more funding."

Momentarily Ryan considers actually attending, temped by free food and an opportunity to lose himself in words. Which is exactly why Ryan won't go, because if he does he'll be blending two worlds. The one from before, when Ryan held onto his dreams, and now, when all that matters is surviving. "I have to go, I left Spencer sleeping."

Ryan makes his escape, his head held high and steps unhurried, keeping that pace until he turns the corner, then stops, back against the wall as he takes a moment to just breathe.

~~~~

Spencer's angry, that's apparent as soon as Ryan walks into the room. It's also something Ryan expected, and he holds out his peace offering, says, "I got breakfast."

Spencer doesn't look around from where he's making the bed, pulling the covers straight and tucking them in tight. He picks up the pillow, thumps it hard in the middle and then sets it back down. "You think offering food makes up for me waking up and finding you gone?"

"I left a note," Ryan says, and he crushing the bag in his hand, paper crumpled under his fingers. "I went to that bakery you like, I got you a cinnamon sugar bagel."

"Two words aren't a note," Spencer says, and finally he turns, looking at Ryan. "You couldn't have said where you were going? I thought you'd gone to see Walt."

"It's too early for him to be awake," Ryan says, and knows he's made a mistake when Spencer's expression hardens, his mouth a thin line. Ryan drops his hand, backtracking as he finds the words to explain. "I woke up and couldn't sleep. So I went for a walk."

Spencer relaxes a little, and sits on the edge of the bed. "You could have woken me up."

"I guess." Ryan sits too, looks down at his lap and the bag containing the bagel. "You needed the sleep."

"I need not to worry you've gone and done something stupid even more," Spencer says, and he takes the bag, ripping it open. Tearing the bagel, he gives Ryan his half. "This is fresh."

Ryan pulls off a chunk of bagel, eating it slowly then licks off the sugar that clings to his fingers. "They throw the old ones away. I was about to go out back when the counter lady offered me this."

"She just handed it over," Spencer says, and he's stopped eating, his mouth twitching at one corner. "You didn't stand there looking pathetic and like some kind of lost, starving waif?"

"No," Ryan says, because all he'd done was go in the shop and be himself. "All I did was ask."

Spencer allows his smile to slip free, says, "I guess it was your charming personality."

"It gets them every time," Ryan says, and he makes no attempt to hide his own smile as he keeps eating his breakfast.

~*~*~*~

It's been close to two days when Mikey finally goes home.

Intending a fleeting visit, he hurries inside, stepping over the junk mail and flyers that are piled up in the main entrance and takes a moment to look at the mail boxes that are attached to one wall. The one for their apartment is marked by a number, the slot for names a mess of black lines and scribbles, old occupants from years before erased and consigned to time. The actual mailbox itself is empty, dust in the corners and the door lock broken. Mikey swings it shut, metal clanging against metal, and heads for the stairs.

Taking them slowly, it's an effort to keep going, his hand gripping the banister and pulling himself upwards, past landing A, where as usual Mrs Walvin's welcome mat is pushed flush against her front door. Landing B where Spot barks from behind the door of apartment two B. Landing C where Mikey knows no one at all, and then, finally, their own. Apartment four D. It's Mikey and Frank's bolt hole from the world, small and shitty with windows that don't close and a door that needs three locks. But it's also their home, and Mikey's hands shake as he tries to fit keys to locks, so tired that all he wants to do is go inside and fall into bed.

Instead he lets himself in and remains standing, his chest aching as he sees the blanket abandoned on the couch and the stains on the floor. His eyes prickling, Mikey pushes open the window, and goes into the bedroom, needing to change clothes. Less than a minute and he's out of his uniform that he's worn for three days. Throwing the shirt and cargo pants in a heap on the floor.

Mikey doesn't have to check his messages to know he won't wear them again. There are too many people chasing his job, people who're available when needed. Mikey's already had his first chance, given time off when Frank became sick. He's had his second chance too, swapping shifts and leaving early as Frank only got worse. Mikey won't get a third, but he's not sorry. As scary as it is right now, when he's all too aware of a lack of both money and support, Mikey wouldn't change what he did. Frank comes first always, that's just how it is.

Kicking at the clothes piled close to the bed, Mikey pulls on some clean pants, fastens his belt before reaching for a t-shirt, and at the last minute changes his mind, picking one of Frank's instead. Pulling it over his head, Mikey keeps hold of the hem, fingers over the words Frank wrote on the inside. _Fuck the world_ in black Sharpie, and Mikey wishes he had the energy to do just that.

Instead he pushes his hand through his hair, slicking it back and takes off his glasses, letting the world slip out of focus. It's better this way, the grime blurred and sharp lines made soft. His hand outstretched, Mikey walks to the sink and takes a moment to wash his face, shuddering at the feel of cold water against his hot skin.

His glasses back on, Mikey takes a look at his watch and heads for the door and the walk back to Saint Mary’s. He leaves the window open, there's no point closing it. There's nothing left to protect.

~~~~

"I thought you'd gone home for some sleep." Jon's sitting on a low wall outside of the hospital. He's got a t-shirt pulled over his scrubs and a large cup of coffee close to his side, his hand shading his eyes as he looks up at Mikey. "You've been gone less than an hour."

Mikey sits, his feet aching and t-shirt clinging under his arms and at the small of his back. He stretches out his legs, heels planted amongst the cigarette butts that litter the ground. "Are you supposed to be undercover? Because the pink pants give you away."

"They're salmon," Jon says, and he takes a drink of his coffee before holding it out to Mikey. "If people see my scrubs they think I'm a doctor. I want to take my break not diagnose corns."

Mikey takes the cup, grimacing at the taste of sugary sweet coffee. He drinks again, asks, "People really think you're a doctor?"

Jon nods and stretches out his own legs. "I saved someone's life once, re-inflated their lung with a straw, a condom and a roll of packing tape."

Jon sounds sincere, but Mikey's spent his life around people who can lie without thinking, telling miss-truths for good reasons and bad. He takes another drink, and looks at Jon over the lid of the cup, says, "Really? A condom."

"It's what I had at hand," Jon says, and then spoils the pretence with a grin. "No, not really, but it makes for a good story."

"Asshole," Mikey says, and right now Jon feels like more of an equal, someone Mikey can talk to without second guessing each word. "Next time make it more dramatic. Someone bleeding out at least."

"Needs more blood," Jon says easily, and he's still smiling, sounding amused. "I'll remember for next time. But people do ask for advice if they see the scrubs. When I first started I was asked about someone's rash. I had to tell them I barely knew how to change a bed never mind diagnose."

"So last week then," Mikey drains the last of the coffee before realising what he's actually doing. Apologetically, he says, "I drank all your coffee."

"Doesn't matter." Jon takes his watch out of his pocket, checking the time before standing. "And it was months ago, I'm a real nurse now, registered and everything."

Mikey stands too, walking away from Jon so he can throw the cup in the trash. Dropping it in, he says, "You're a good nurse. Frank likes you."

"He's talked to you?" Jon says, sounding surprised. "It wasn't on his chart."

Mikey's wishing he could take back his words, because Frank hasn't woken up and he hasn't talked, but Mikey still knows. He says, "No, but I can tell."

Which is something Jon seems to take in stride. "I'll tell him thanks when we get back. You, me, Frank and another round of IV antibiotics."

"Sounds like a party," Mikey says, and he lengthens his stride, needing to get back.

"You know it," Jon says, and he matches Mikey step for step.

~*~*~*~

Ryan hates late afternoons, when the night looms close and he's all too aware of the inevitability of more time on the street. At this hour time is everything, seeming to slow as Ryan washes and applies his make-up. Subtle now as opposed to before, but still enough that Ryan can pretend he's another person as he lines his eyes and darkens his lashes.

In the other room Spencer's lying on the bed. Ryan can see him in the cracked mirror, Spencer's knees bent and head on the pillow, his eyes closed as he does his own routine of slipping behind his own defences. Ryan's used to it now, but each time it hurts to see Spencer becoming sharp-edged, his smile still there but obviously fake.

Ryan looks away, carefully places the liner on the back of the sink and then wets his hands, running them through his hair. At first, when Ryan was still new he'd spend time styling his hair. He doesn't now, there's no point when any style is destroyed. It's another lesson he learned fast and Ryan shakes his hands, rubbing his red fingers against the threadbare towel. When they're dry he tugs at his pants, his fingers cold against the rise of his hip bone, checking he can show off the right amount of skin. It's a deliberate look, and sometimes when Ryan catches glances of himself shown in full length he wants to laugh at how clichéd it is.

Tight clothes and exposed skin, his face painted and hair unruly. It's like Ryan's catching glimpses of himself back in his old bedroom, except now, while he's still showing himself off to the world, this display comes along with desperation.

Ryan wanted attention back then, now he _needs_ it. His body and looks used in exchange for money and to get that he'll embrace the cliche, even as he hates everything about it. He rests his hand on his stomach, looks at himself in the mirror and starts to shut down. Not completely, Ryan still needs to talk and interact, but the things that matter he fights to keep protected.

"We should get going." Spencer sits up on the bed, and while he doesn't look like Ryan -- he never does, he can't, and Ryan tries not to think about what kind of person would pick someone just to see their smile falter -- Spencer's jumped his own line and is ready to go. Still sitting, he slips the key to the apartment into his shoe, wiggling it into place and then stands.

Ryan looks away from the mirror, inevitability sitting heavy as he leaves the safety of the small room and then outside. The door slamming shut behind them.

~~~~~

Fifth is still dead and Ryan doesn't understand why Walt's so insistent he stays.

It's been hours and all Ryan's done is one blow job, a first-timer with shaking hands and a guilty expression. Someone who threw down the twenty when Ryan was done and then ran. Ryan's got that twenty tucked into his shoe, hidden under the arch of his foot. He imagines he can feel it as he walks, a thin piece of paper from which he'll get half if he's lucky. He suspects that tonight he won't be. This area is too deserted, the nearby shops with their shutters pulled down, the night clubs and restaurants blocks away in the wrong direction.

It means this area is Ryan’s alone to claim, but claiming means nothing when the results are so poor. Trying to understand why it's so important he's here, Ryan walks a short distance, forward and then back, fifty-two steps each time. Ensuring he's always close to the corner, and the alley that runs off behind it. When he hears the sound of a car approaching Ryan turns, drops his arms that he's had crossed over his chest and moves close to the road, waiting until he sees the first glow of headlights When he does Ryan modifies his walk, using his hips and slinking forward, forcing a smile as the car slows and then stops.

The guy inside opens the window, his upper arm resting against the edge as he says casually, "200 and I get to hobble and mark you."

"250 and nothing permanent," Ryan says, and the pieces are fitting together, why he's been told to stay here where it's so deserted, with no one to hear or care at the sound of a scream. it's cold realisation, and Ryan approaches the car. "Here or inside somewhere else?"

"Back there," the guy says, and he's looking Ryan over, accessing, his eyes narrowed until he adds, "You'll do."

It's a remark that Ryan takes in but doesn't let stick. Used to being judged, he simply stands still, says, "You can park here, no one comes past."

"So I've been told." Turning off the engine, the man exits the car and locks the doors. He takes a step next to Ryan, leans down so they're staring face-to-face and says, "Run. Now."

It's been a while since Ryan's had a john who gets off on something like this. But time hasn't dulled his memories and he does run, heading for the alley and the covering darkness. His heart thumping, he wants to keep running straight on, keeping on the sidewalk and the safety of light, but this is what Ryan _does_ , what he has to do, and he takes a right turn. Within seconds he can hear footsteps behind him, getting closer as Ryan runs deeper, past the dumpsters and shuttered up gateways, trash piled on the ground and the rats that Ryan always hears as he waits.

  
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Suddenly, Ryan's falling, propelled forward as his feet are abruptly pulled together and then yanked from under him. Hitting hard, Ryan gasps, trying to break his fall with his hands, but he's being pulled back, his t-shirt pulled up and gravel scraping across his stomach and chest as he's dragged across the rough ground.

"Caught you little piggy," the john says, laughing as Ryan's pulled closer. "You didn't get far, not that I expect you would, a little runt like you."

"You never paid for a race," Ryan manages to say, his head held up and away from the ground.

The john laughs again. "No, I paid for a hunt and caught me a piggy."

Another yank and Ryan's feet hit against something firm. Twisting to his side he looks behind him, and sees the john, standing holding a rope that he's got looped in his hands. He's also carrying a branding iron, and Ryan swallows hard, his stomach churning. "Nothing permanent remember."

"I remember pigs don't talk," the john says, and he kneels, and starts to wind the rope around Ryan's ankles, tying them tightly together. "They also need to be taught a lesson."

The words are what Ryan expected, being caught and tied too, but what Ryan won't allow is a permanent mark, and he's prepared to fight for escape when the john picks up the branding iron, the end already darkened with what Ryan has to hope is black ink. Ryan brings up his arm, but he can't see any evidence of heat, and he's taking yet another risk, that this whole situation is part of the scene.

"Stay still," the john demands, and he positions the brand so it's barely above Ryan's cheek. This close there's still no heat and Ryan's fighting to remain still, reminding himself that this has to be play acting only, but that doesn't help with the fear. Ryan's panting for breath, his whole body twisted, then the brand is against his skin, the hard edge jabbed against Ryan's cheekbone. There's no heat, no sizzle of burning flesh, just a dull pain, the john breathing harshly as he keeps the brand pressed down firmly. "It better not be smudged." The john pulls back his arm, the metal bar hitting the ground with a clang as he grabs hold of Ryan's jaw, his fingers digging in as he turns his head to the side. "Good."

Ryan remains still, lies quietly, his cheek aching and stomach burning. He imagines how he must look with his t-shirt pulled up and legs tied together, how undignified a picture it must be. Not that Ryan feels that lack of dignity, not at this moment, and he braces himself when he's pushed onto his back, and the john straddles him, using his body weight to keep Ryan in place.

"You're going to be punished for running, little piggy," the john says, and his hands are bunched into tight fists, his mouth a snarl as he brings back his right hand.

No matter how much Ryan prepares the first hit is always a surprise. It takes his breath as he struggles to cope with the pain, how it seems frozen at first, concentrated on the site of impact, then radiates out in burning waves. Which is when the second hit lands, on the other side this time, knuckles against Ryan's ribs and he's barely got time to bite back a cry before it happens again and again, the john alternating fists until all Ryan can do is bring his arms and hands up, trying to protect his face.

"Learned your lesson yet?" The john says, but it's no kind of question that needs an answer, and Ryan tells himself this is close to being over, that he can hold on for a few minutes as the john starts to unbuckle his belt and pants. Ryan drops his hands, intending to unfasten his own pants.

"I can't reach," Ryan says, blood from his split lip spilling as he touches the thigh of the john. "You'll have to sit up."

The john shakes his head, his face screwed up as if Ryan's said something horrific. "Did I say I wanted that? I'm not some kind of pervert who likes that shit."

It's the kind of hypocrisy Ryan's come to expect, and he'd laugh if he wasn't so relieved. Instead he says, "sorry," and then remains still, eyes always open, watching as the john starts to jerk himself off.

It doesn't take long. A few strokes, the john kneeling up at the last minute as he aims for Ryan's face, grunting, "Now you know little piggy."

And Ryan does know, that tonight he'll be going back with enough money for food, to help toward the rent for this week. It's that he concentrates on, as come mixes with blood, sliding down Ryan's cheek.

~*~*~*~

People keep saying that Frank will eventually wake up, which is great, fantastic even, but Mikey wants to know _when_. Already it feels like he's been living in this room forever, surviving on snatched food and sleep, his throat dry from conversations that are always one-sided. It's like this space is cut off from the world, a place where time still moves but at its own sluggish pace, and Mikey's about out of his mind.

When it's so quiet he can't help but worry, about making rent for the week, about his job that he's sure to have lost now, if he should forget everything Frank's ever said and go and call Linda. Mikey grips hold of Frank's hand, needing the contact as he tries to think through each worry. Not that it helps, they're all tangled together and all Mikey wants to do is say stop. He wants someone to come and take over, to talk with the doctors and fill in the forms with half-truths and believable lies. Mostly he wants someone to squeeze his hand back, warmth and contact in a world that's increasingly bleak.

Mikey wants Frank. His mom and dad. He wants Gerard to stand at his back and give his support.

But all Mikey has is himself. It's why he keeps on filling in the forms, keeps going when he's ready to drop, why he picks up the book he's been reading to Frank, scrubbing at his eyes and then clears his throat.

"I hope you weren't planning to start without me." Like he's been lying in wait, Jon peers around the side of the door, frowning when he sees the book Mikey's holding. "I need to know what happens to Harry."

"He shouts a lot," Mikey says, and awkwardly, he opens the book with one hand, the paper towel he used as a bookmark fluttering to the ground. "I can't believe you haven't read these."

"I've seen the movies," Jon says, and he pulls a chair up next to Mikey and rests his feet on the side of the bed, grinning as he says, "You better use the snake voice."

"Fuck off, you love my snake voice," Mikey says, blinking as he scans the page, trying to find the stopping point from the last time he read.

Jon's grins widens and he says, "It's very, snakey," then his smile fades, the mood abruptly changing and Jon's looking at his knees, anywhere but Mikey.

"What's wrong?" Mikey says, because he knows this kind of silence, the kind that always comes along with bad things. Mikey lets the book close over his fingers. "Jon? Is there something wrong with Frank?"

"Not physically," Jon says, and then amends, "Well, not anything worse than before. It's the paperwork."

"We're legally adults," Mikey says instantly, and that's one thing that _is_ true. "And I'm Frank's next of kin." Which technically isn't, not that Mikey's about to say.

"It's not that," Jon says, and he drops his feet to the floor, turning so he can look directly at Mikey. "They're starting to mention payment, even a place like this needs something."

Paying for Frank's stay is one of Mikey's main worries, but right now it's diminished by the initial rush of relief that Frank hasn't got any worse. Mikey rests the book on his lap, says, "I'll pay it."

"They'll give you time to pay." Jon's trying to sound sure, but Mikey can see through the words, false assurances given as Jon tries to soften the blow. "And there are charities that'll help. There's one partnered with this place, they'll hook you up."

It's good information to know, but right now Mikey can't even think about approaching more people, having to explain what happened to Frank yet again. Mikey looks away from the book, seeing how Jon seems genuinely concerned. It's something Mikey's noticed for days now, how Jon remains a professional always, but the kind that comes along with a feeling of friendship. After years of being surrounded by friends it's something Mikey is missing, but he doesn't understand why it's happening now. When Mikey's got nothing to offer in return. Needing to know, Mikey says, "Do you always care this much?"

Jon seems surprised, and replies, "I'm a nurse, we all care."

"In theory." That's something Mikey knows first hand, after his run in with a night nurse who ordered him to leave, and the one who tended to Frank like an object and not an actual person. Mikey pictures them both, and while most of the nurses do care, they're nothing like Jon. "You're different. You're good to Frank."

"He's a good patient," Jon's gaze is focused on Frank, and he's quiet for so long that Mikey thinks Jon's going to sidestep the question. Then, he turns to Mikey, says, "I decided I wanted to be a nurse when I was a kid. My family said I should try for a doctor, but I'd my heart set on nursing. I had this idealized view I'd be making a difference where it was needed, and that meant being there for the people."

"And?" Mikey prompts, when Jon trails off again.

"And sometimes the people don't want me, or the system gets in the way," Jon says. "And I want to walk away and never look back. Until I do make a difference again."

Mikey remembers all the times Jon's arrived with spare food, the blanket that somehow remains in the corner, the jug of water that's always refilled. "By sneaking in food and blankets?"

"If that's what it takes," Jon says, and he looks at the clock on the wall. "So yeah, I care."

It's an answer that rings true, and Mikey squeezes Frank's hand and then opens the book. "Does that caring extend to some snake voice still?"

Jon grins, says, "Bring it on."

~*~*~*~

With Spencer's help, Ryan lies on the bed, biting back a groan when he pulls up his legs. Closing his eyes and relieved to be home, Ryan tries to relax, listening as Spencer paces the room. Ryan can tell he's still angry, the faucet squealing as its yanked hard and water splashing against the bowl of the sink.

"You'll break if off again," Ryan says, trying to talk without moving his mouth. "I'm not sacrificing another sock to deal with a flood."

"Considering it was your fault last time..." Spencer says, and the bed dips as he sits. "I'm putting the towel on, keep still."

Ryan would make some remark about not planning to move any time soon, but his whole face is throbbing, and he takes a deep breath as Spencer positions the damp towel.

"I'm going to kill him one day." Spencer voice is steel, as opposed to the careful way he runs his hands over Ryan's ribs and stomach, skimming over the forming bruises. "If I'd have been there that fucker wouldn't have done this."

Which is the whole point, and if Ryan didn't hate him so much he'd have to admire how neatly Walt set up the whole situation. As it is, even if Ryan's whole body is hurting, at least it resulted in money for rent. If Ryan has to take some hits to keep them both safe, well, that's exactly what he's going to do. Not that Spencer seems to agree, and the bed moves again when he stands and starts to pace once again.

"I mean it Ryan, I'm going to kill the fucker. And every piece of shit that pays to hurt you."

Ryan pulls at the towel, exposing one eye. "I made enough for rent."

"I don't... for fuck's sake." Spencer stops pacing, standing in the middle of the room, his back toward Ryan. "I don't care. He could have given you a hundred times that and it wouldn't have been worth it."

"It's happened before," Ryan reminds Spencer, and he needs him to understand that when it comes to keeping them safe Ryan will do anything that's needed. "And it'll happen again, because I’ll agree to it, and that means I've got the power."

Spencer's shoulders slump, his anger draining away as he says, "No, it means you think it's okay for people to fuck you over, and it's not. It never is."

"It's different when I let them," Ryan says again, but he knows that Spencer will never agree. Ryan closes his eye and readjusts the towel. "How did your night go?"

"Fine," Spencer says shortly, and there's a click of the light-switch before the room goes dark, footsteps then Spencer's easing into the bed, being careful as he folds himself down next to Ryan and then pulls the blankets over them both. "Nothing that unusual, one shower but I told him only if he got a room, he wasn't going to piss on my clothes."

"Did you tell someone you were going?" Usually when Spencer goes off with a john Ryan keeps watch, ready to raise the alarm if he doesn't come back within a certain time. Now Ryan's too far away, and he hates that.

Spencer rolls onto his side, his head next to Ryan's. "Your weird friend Pete was there."

Ryan relaxes a little because if Pete's there it means Spencer leaving was noted. "Pete's not weird."

"Compared to you, maybe," Spencer says, and then, "He was wearing cat ears tonight."

Ryan tries to imagine how Pete will look in the ears, but needs more details to create the full picture. "Were they big ears? And black to match his hair?"

"They were cat ears," Spencer states simply. "And stop thinking about getting some."

Sometimes, it's frustrating that Spencer knows Ryan so well, especially when Ryan would look fantastic with cat ears. Blindly, he jabs at Spencer's side. "Spoilsport."

"Weirdo," Spencer shoots back. "Go to sleep."

"Trying." Ryan moves the towel, dropping it to the floor. This late he should be exhausted, but the adrenalin rush is lingering, enough that he's just that side of awake, and all too aware of the aches and pains that'll only get worse before they get better. Gingerly, Ryan moves his head, Spencer becoming a close shadow, his eyes gleaming as he stares back at Ryan.

"You need anything?" Spencer says softly. "I can go to the gas station and get some painkillers"

"It'll wait until tomorrow," Ryan says, not that he's not tempted, but he's not about to make Spencer get out of bed and walk to the store. "I'm going to need to stock up."

"Not if I can help it," Spencer says, and his hand is a warm weight against Ryan's side.

Ryan closes his eyes, pretending he didn't hear. It's just easier that way.

~*~*~*~

It's early morning when Frank first starts to wake up.

Mikey's trying to sleep, his legs curled underneath his chair, body resting against the side of the bed and head next to Frank's pillow. In this position, tucked back, away from any direct look from anyone from outside of the door, Mikey's been able to stay over without announcing his presence. Not that he's under any illusion that people don't know. But if Mikey keeps quiet they seem willing to let him stay, and being able to do that is worth the cramped position. It’s also why, when Frank starts to move, Mikey's aware within seconds. It's only a little at first, then Frank's eyes are moving, slowly, as if he's having trouble getting them open.

Mikey's barely able to breathe, caught between willing Frank on and leaving him to get more rest if he needs it. Selfishly, it's the former Mikey wants to do more, and when Frank's eyes remain open, Mikey says, "Frank, hey."

"Mikey?" Frank's voice is rough, barely audible despite Mikey leaning in close. "Where..."

"You're in hospital, I had to bring you in." Mikey's half standing, hands on the side of the bed and looking directly at Frank, who looks too pale, his skin pulled dry and tight, his cheeks fever-bright. Mikey moves even closer, his knees braced and weight propped on his hands, the room around him becoming distant as he presses a kiss against Frank's mouth. It's a kiss meant for reassurance, that Frank is alive and still breathing, is trying to track Mikey's movements as he pulls back and reaches for the call button. "I need to call for the nurses."

Frank nods, the tiniest amount, and already his eyes are closing again. Then he opens them wide, his mouth moving without any actual words. Not that it matters. Mikey stands at the side of the bed and takes hold of Frank's hand, says as a nurse enters the room, "I'm not going anywhere. Promise."

It's a promise Mikey keeps, especially a few minutes later, when Doctor Jane finally appears. Giving her room, Mikey takes a position close to the window, his back against the wall, watching as Frank is checked over. Technically he knows he's got no legal right to stay. He's not Frank's next of kin, but it was Mikey who signed him in, and Mikey that's been here every day since. That has to stand for something, and Mikey keeps his position, watching at the doctor sits at Frank's side.

"It's good to see you awake," Doctor Jane says, and she checks Frank's chart, reading through all the pages. "We were starting to get worried about you."

Starting is an understatement as far as Mikey's concerned. Taking a step to the side he slides down, sitting on the window ledge, but never looking away as the doctor does basic checks, ending by listening to Frank's chest. Not that Frank notices, already sleeping again as she pulls up the blanket then turns toward Mikey. "How are you doing?"

Mikey likes Doctor Jane, she's turned a blind eye the times she's found him sleeping in Frank's room, and is always willing to talk, something that extends to Frank as she explains what she's doing. This time though, she's got the wrong focus, and Mikey says, "I'm fine."

Doctor Jane doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't press the issues, just notes something down on the chart and then says, "It's good that he woke up. But I don't like that his lungs still aren't starting too clear."

Mikey's spent every moment possible with Frank, so it's not like he doesn't know that any improvements have been minuscule at best, but he'd hoped him waking was the start of an upturn. To be told otherwise is a hard thing to hear, and Mikey's glad that he's sitting. He takes a moment to look outside, at the streets that are just starting to get busy. The people going about their daily lives, ones who have no idea that up here Mikey feels like he's drowning. Not that he can allow that feeling to take over, and he forces himself to focus and asks, "So what happens now?"

"I'm going to order a med change," Doctor Jane says, and she stands, hooking the chart over the end of the bed. "We'll make him better, it may just take some time."

"Right. Thank you," Mikey says, and he remains in place until Doctor Jane's left the room. Once she's gone Mikey reclaims his former place, leans forward so he can rest his head against Frank's chest. "Hear that, they're changing your meds again, this lot will have to work better."

Mikey hopes so, and he lets his eyes close, and listens to Frank breathe.

~*~*~*~

Due to a combination of pretending to sleep, actual sleep and flat out ignoring, Ryan manages to last almost five hours before giving in and agreeing to go to the clinic. It’s at the stage where Spencer’s threatening violence when Ryan pushes back the blankets and says, “ _Fine_ , but just so you know, threatening to punch me if I don’t go get checked over makes no sense.”

“You make no sense,” Spencer says, and waits until Ryan is upright before taking a ten dollar bill from under the mattress. “We’ll go in, they’ll make sure you haven’t punctured a lung, and then we’ll leave.”

“My lungs are hole free,” Ryan says, glaring, his back curved as he heads for the door. “If they were punctured I’d know about it.”

“Because there’s no history of you not mentioning shit like that,” Spencer snaps back. Locking the door he puts the key in his pocket, slowing his steps so they’re matching with Ryan’s. “You’re an asshole.”

“Consider it noted.” Ryan keeps walking, focus pulled tight as he pushes away the ache of his ribs, and the fact that soon he’ll have to be going back out. It doesn’t help that Spencer’s using anger to hide his own fear. Which Ryan understands, but right now he needs his best friend and has no idea how to reach him.

Spencer’s remained opposed to Ryan going out on his own, which is something Ryan doesn’t understand. Spencer knows that Ryan hasn’t got any choice. Going against Walt would be suicide, and it’s not like what Ryan’s doing is so bad.

“We could move on,” Spencer says. “Hitch to a new city and get real jobs.”

To Ryan the suggestion is as far fetched as any miracle. Which is something Ryan needs before he’ll ever manage to escape. Ryan crosses his hands across his chest, says, “You should take all the money and buy a ticket. As far as you can go.”

“Fuck you, Ryan.” Spencer increases his speed, walking away from Ryan, and then abruptly turns. “That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

“You could get away from here.” It’s a conversation they’ve had multiple times, but no matter what Ryan says, how he twists his words, the result never changes. “You don’t owe Walt a thing.”

“Neither do you,” Spencer says, and he keeps on talking, cutting Ryan off when he tries to reply. “Any debt you had to him should have been wiped out months ago.”

“Should doesn’t cut it,” Ryan says. He’s seen what happens to people who owe Walt. It’s why he keeps on paying the debt, handing over the cash preferable to his own or Spencer’s life. “You’re stupid for sticking around.”

“So you keep saying.” Spencer stands still, waiting for Ryan to catch up. “But I’m not going anywhere, so suck it up and deal.”

Ryan keeps moving forward, intent on getting one foot in front of the other. When he reaches Spencer he says, “Pretend I made a witty remark about sucking just then.”

“I don’t know if my imagination’s that good.” Spencer falls into step with Ryan once more and for a while they walk in silence, the sound of Ryan’s breathing loud in his own ears. Then, still looking forward, Spencer says, “I hate him, Ryan.”

“I know,” Ryan says, and then, “I hate him too.”

~*~*~*~

Assured that Frank will probably stay sleeping, Mikey’s bowed to Jon’s pressure and taken an hour to go home and change clothes.

Always aware of the time, Mikey runs up the stairs of his building, gripping the banister for balance, his hand sliding over the smooth metal. Reaching their floor, Mikey stops, panting a little as he heads for his apartment, and then stops dead, seeing the note that’s pinned on the door.

Mikey knows what it is. He’s seen them issued for late payment of rent and minor infractions, the owner of the building knowing there’s always people desperate to move in to somewhere so cheap.

And now there’s a notice for Mikey and Frank. Mikey takes slow steps forward, his teeth clenched as he reads the scrawled words under the official type. That Mikey and Frank have lost their apartment, that their belongings have been gathered up and left with the superintendent. That they have a day to reclaim them before they’re thrown out.

Mikey doesn’t know how he stays standing. It feels like everything he loves is being ripped from under his feet and he stares at the new lock, the wood around it raw and splintered. But he does stay standing, he’s got no choice.

Numb, Mikey turns away and heads for the stairs. He doesn’t look back, there’s no point. Just keeps walking, down the stairs, his steps careful, taking account of how the world is fading around him.

“Mikey. I’m sorry. You know how it is.”

Mikey blinks, surprised to find himself in front of the superintendent’s apartment, his door open and bags piled in the hall. Mikey recognizes them, the backpack he brought from home, Frank’s bags, the ones they’ve gathered together, including the ugly green cloth bag Frank insists on taking to the store.

Each one is bulging, stuffed with clothes and bedding, one of Frank’s books fallen out on the floor.

“I told the owner Frank was sick, and that you’d always paid the rent on time, but no go.” The super is still talking, sympathetic even as he starts to gather the bags, putting them close to the door. “All the personal stuff’s in there. If you want I can escort you to get the rest, otherwise it’ll be scraped.”

Mikey shakes his head. As much as it hurts to say no, there’s no way he can take all their belongings, as meager as they are. He’s got no place to store the table they fixed up together, or to keep the miss-matched plates. Mikey hasn’t even got anywhere to keep the things in the bags, but he’s not about to let them go.

He picks up a bag, says, “I should go.”

The super starts to reach out, and then drops his hand, taking a step back into his own apartment. “I’m sorry.”

And the thing is, Mikey believes him. But being sorry means nothing when Mikey’s carrying multiple bags and has nowhere to go. “It’s not your fault,” Mikey says, and he balances the bags and turns, walking away without looking back.

~*~*~*~

Waiting is something Ryan does well. Mostly he escapes into his head, attention divided between reality and a comforting blankness. It’s why he’s zoned out now, able to forget any discomfort as Spencer flicks through a magazine that has to be years out of date.

He keeps reading as the door to the clinic is pushed open and Lindsey appears, peering around the frame as she says, “I didn’t peg you for a Cosmo man.”

Spencer tilts the magazine in her direction. “I was checking out 101 tips for keeping your man.”

“Ninety-nine of which are bullshit,” Lindsey says with a grin. “Get your asses in here.”

She disappears back into the room, and Ryan stands, pointedly not using the wall for support.

“Give it up, you’re no actor,” Spencer says, and drops the magazine back onto a chair. “Your face gets all scrunchy, like you’re constipated.”

“Scrunchy? Really?” Ryan says, and while Spencer’s right about most things, in this he isn’t at all. Because Ryan’s a brilliant actor, that’s something he proves daily.

“Right here.” Spencer points at his own mouth and glances over at Ryan. “And I don’t mean the shit you do at night. I mean the stuff that matters.”

Ryan would protest the difference, but Lindsey’s waiting, watching as they walk into the room. When they’re inside she shuts the door and says, “Tell me you weren’t hurt when I saw you yesterday, because if you were I’m going to kick your ass.”

Ryan shakes his head and sits on the examination table, the paper laid across it crumpling beneath him. “It happened last night.”

“He was punched in the ribs, probably kicked too,” Spencer cuts in, like he’s sure Ryan isn’t going to give the full details. “I cleaned him up but his breathing was off, especially lying down.”

“I’m talking aren’t I? My breathing’s just fine.” To demonstrate that, Ryan takes a deep breath, and then stops, coughing as his ribs protest the movement.

“Obviously you’re fine,” Spencer says, and he stays close, watching everything Lindsey does as she sits next to Ryan.

“That’s not the best way to show me you’re fine,” Lindsey says, and she’s got her hand on Ryan’s back, gently rubbing as he rides out the coughing fit.

Finally able to breathe easier, Ryan rubs under his eyes, and takes the tissues Lindsey pulls from out of a box. “Told you they’re okay.”

“That’s my call, kid.” Lindsey’s still got her hand on Ryan’s back, and he tries to breathe easy, slow and steady as she turns to the side, her foot bumping against Ryan’s. “You do know I’ve met you before.”

“Not by choice,” Ryan says, all too aware of how ungrateful he sounds. Which isn’t fair, because Lindsey and Phoenix House are important, to Ryan and the countless others struggling to survive. It’s just. Ryan hates being here, forced to accept charity and a kindness he’s sure he doesn’t deserve.

“You say that like I don’t enjoy patching you up.” Standing, Lindsey flashes a smile as she adjusts the head of the bed so it’s on a half recline. “Lie back, I’ll check you over.”

Resigned, Ryan pulls up his feet, lying back and watching as Lindsey washes her hands at the sink, soaping them over her wrists, bubbles sliding down her fingers, shimmering white against her black painted nails.

Holding both hands under the stream of water, Lindsey says, “We’re low on gloves, so I’m trying not to use them if it’s not necessary, but if you’re worried....”

“You think I’d be worried about catching something off you?” If Ryan’s chest wasn’t hurting so much he’d laugh at the very idea of something so stupid. “You know who you’re touching.”

“Yeah. I do,” Lindsey says simply, and she dries her hands on a paper towel and then walks over to Ryan. Bending forward, she eases up his t-shirt, and then takes hold of Ryan’s hand, putting it on top of the bunched up material. “Sorry if my hands are cold.”

Ryan waves off the apology and lies still as Lindsey checks his ribs, her touch gentle but sure, always careful of the deep bruising. When she reaches for a stethoscope Ryan follows her directions, breathing as deeply as possible and sitting forward, his arm against his chest as she moves to his back.

“Has he cracked them?” Spencer asks, still standing as close as he can without getting in the way.

“Not this time,” Lindsey says, sounding serious as she puts the stethoscope back on the counter, and pulls Ryan’s t-shirt back into place. “But that bruising’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

“Told you.” Ryan starts to push himself up, but then eases back down at Lindsey’s look.

“Coming in was the right thing to do,” Lindsey says, and she takes hold of the end of one of her pigtails, winding the hair around her finger. “I should tell you not to go out tonight.”

It’s something Ryan would ignore, but he still asks, “Will you?”

“It’s not a battle I’d pick,” Lindsey says, and for a moment defeat leaks through as she turns away and opens a locked cupboard. Rummaging through the contents she picks up a handful of painkillers, strips of them, all in small boxes. “They won’t make you drowsy, so take them.”

It’s Spencer that takes the boxes, pushing them into his pockets and then giving Lindsey the ten dollar bill as he says, “He will.”

All Ryan can do is agree, and say, “I will.”

~*~*~*~

Making friends is easy for Mikey. The problem is a lack of time and money mean the kind he’s made here haven’t moved past being acquaintances to actual close friends. They’re perfect for passing the time of day, or discussing movies and music, even attending gigs when they could spare the money to go out. Beyond that though, there’s no one.

It’s why Mikey’s standing here now. Bags at his feet and phone in his pocket, but with no one he can actually call.

Fear pushes close, raw and relentless, trying to ooze past Mikey’s defences as he tries to think what to do. He needs to get back to the hospital, but can’t when he’s carrying the bags, because one thing Mikey does know is that Frank can’t discover what’s happened. He needs to heal, and that means being able to rest and not worry. If that means Mikey has to do this alone, that’s exactly what he’s going to do, and he flexes his fingers, easing the ache before he picks up the bags once again.

He’s heading toward a storage unit, one he used to pass daily on the way into work. It doesn’t look the most secure of places, but then again, nothing does in this area. Plus, Mikey’s desperate, and willing to take the chance.

~~~~~

Mikey rents one of the smallest lockers for a period of two weeks. That’ll be enough to sort out his job and get more money, to find a place that they’ll call their new home.

When Mikey hands over the money he’s left with a few dollars.

Which is fine. He’ll cope.

~~~~~

“Mikey. Hey.”

At the sound of Frank’s voice, Mikey can’t help smiling. Dropping the backpack he’s carrying, he hurries over to the bed, which has been raised, propping Frank up so he’s half sitting.

“I wanted to be back when you woke up,” Mikey says, and he leans over the rails of the bed, gathering Frank into a hug, careful of the tubes and wires that snake from his body.

“That nurse said you’d be back soon, the guy.” Frank’s voice is still rough, his words slightly slurred as if he fighting through sleep. He brings his hand to Mikey’s back, his fingers curling into Mikey’s t-shirt. “You were at work? How’s things?”

“Fine,” Mikey says instantly, and he’s got his eyes closed, his face against Frank’s neck, needing this reassurance that Frank is okay, that he’s alive.

Frank moves his head, brushing a kiss against Mikey’s forehead. “I must smell rank.”

“The fucking worst,” Mikey agrees, making no attempt to move. “You look like shit, too.”

Frank laughs, says, “I look like Adonis and you know it.”

“If he’d died, been buried and resurrected as a zombie maybe.” Mikey straightens, breaking the hug and takes a small step back before the urge to crawl into bed with Frank gets too much. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve died and been resurrected.” Frank’s lying back against his pile of pillows, his eyes sliding closed, as if the effort of giving a hug was exhausting. “Did you call anyone?”

Mikey hooks the chair leg with his foot, pulling it forward. Sitting, he rests his arms on the bed rail and looks over at Frank, trying to decide if this is Frank’s hint that Mikey should have called his mom. “Did you want me to?”

  
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It takes Frank a long time to reply, enough that Mikey’s kicking himself for not calling Linda as soon as Frank became sick. Then Frank shakes his head, says, “She’d just worry.”

Relieved, Mikey props his chin on his arms. Frank not wanting to contact Linda one less worry, allowing Mikey to stop second guessing his decisions. For this at least. He says, “I didn’t call her.”

Again Frank hesitates, and then he says, “What about Gerard?”

It’s been months since Mikey’s heard Gerard’s name, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t think of him often. There’s no way Mikey couldn’t, because Gerard’s a huge part of his life -- was a huge part -- and even now Mikey’s every instinct is to forgive.

He doesn’t by remembering the bad times, which helps, a little. Until the times when it doesn’t at all, and all Mikey wants to do is call his brother and say that he needs him.

“He wouldn’t have come,” Mikey says, and he tries his best to believe his own lie.

“So just us,” Frank says, and he reaches out his hand so he can touch Mikey’s face. “Just how I like it.”

Mikey tries to believe that lie too.

~*~*~*~

When Ryan arrives at Fifth he finds Pete already waiting.

He’s sitting on the curb, legs outstretched and hands on the sidewalk. He’s bundled inside an oversized hoodie, and wearing pink sneakers, the laces woven through with silver strands. Looking like that he shouldn’t get any trade at all, but somehow Pete always does, luring in the johns with his wide smile and disarming chatter.

The fact is, Pete’s good at what he does, too good at times, and sometimes Ryan isn’t sure if he’s talking to Pete himself or the alter ego he presents to the world.

That Ryan even knows there’s a distinction is something that took months to discover. Time when Ryan and Pete talked, about surviving and music and the books they both loved. Until one day Ryan looked up and realized the Pete he knew wasn’t the one seen by the world around them.

It was a jarring realization, and even now Ryan’s aware that in some ways Pete is still hiding. Like tonight, when he looks up at Ryan, grins and announces, “I decided I needed a new area.”

“Walt’s going to be pissed,” Ryan says, not that he actually cares. Having Pete here is a good thing, both as a friend and having someone to watch and make sure Ryan doesn’t end up bleeding out in the back alley.

“Sucks to be him.” Pete stands, wrapping an arm around Ryan’s shoulders. “How’s the ribs?”

“Fine,” Ryan says, and pulls up his t-shirt, showing off the bruising before Pete does it himself. “Who’s been talking?”

Pete whistles, says, “Who hasn’t? Brendon told Alicia, who told William, who told Gabe, who told me.”

Ryan follows the chain of names, all familiar apart from the first. “Brendon?”

“Short, cute, killer voice,” Pete says, and keeps his arm around Ryan as they walk back from the road, taking positions close to the wall. “He’s volunteering at Phoenix House, some kind of extra credit for his school.”

“One of those.” They’re the people Ryan likes least, the do-gooders who arrive and stick their noses in, patting themselves on their backs while looking around with obvious pity. “He needs to learn to keep his mouth shut.”

“He will,” Pete says, and when he steps away from Ryan he pulls his hands up into the sleeves of his hoodie. “But you know nothing’s a secret around here anyway.”

Which explains Pete moving his area, and why it is him and not one of the others who’re all tied to Walt in some way. It’s why Ryan says, “Walt’s going to kill you one day, if you keep defying him.”

Pete shrugs. “He never told me I couldn’t come here so I’m not defying anyone.”

“That’s not how he’ll see it,” Ryan says, all too aware that no matter how Pete spins this, Walt won’t agree. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

“I know.” Pete turns, looking at the graffiti that covers the wall. “But I like it here, it has atmosphere.”

“You’re crazy,” Ryan says, watching as Pete steps sideways, grinning as he reads the bad puns and obscene messages.

Pete takes another step, says, “So I’ve been told.”

~*~*~*~

If Frank wasn’t so sick, Mikey knows there’s no way he’d get away with his lies. Each time Mikey leaves and says he’s going to work he feels guilty for taking advantage, when Frank still spends half of his time sleeping and the rest trying to pretend he’s not actually ill.

If Frank’s concentrating on the most basic of things, like breathing or taking a drink or managing to turn over the TV, he’s not questioning Mikey, who slips away each morning with a kiss and a promise to be back after his shift. A shift that right now is being worked by some other person, something Mikey found out when he did finally call work, and was told his position had been terminated the day after he didn’t show up.

It’s not a surprise, and Mikey can’t regret his decision to stick close to Frank. It’s just, he has to find something else, and fast. And Mikey’s looking, heading out from the hospital during the hours Frank think he’s at work. Instead Mikey’s walking the streets, checking out any possible job openings no matter how menial or unlikely.

But he hasn’t managed to get one. Not even an interview, and Mikey’s getting desperate, locked in a vicious circle where exhaustion, hunger and hygiene are an ongoing battle. If it wasn’t for the hospital Mikey wouldn’t be sleeping or eating at all. Instead he’s become used to sharing Frank’s food, including the extras that always seem to appear on his tray, and sleeping while slumped forward, half on the chair and half against Frank’s nest of pillows.

It’s no way to live, but it’s all Mikey’s got right now, and he looks into yet another shop window, hoping that this time there’ll be a notice about possible work.

There’s not, and Mikey’s about to walk off when someone touches his arm and says, “Mikey, hi.”

Seeing Jon away from the hospital is weird, and he seems out of place here, wearing different clothes, a messenger bag slung over his chest. Still, he reminds Mikey of sickness, bland food and antiseptic and he says, “Hey,” and starts to move away.

Jon holds out his hand, stopping Mikey from moving. “If you have time we’re about to have lunch. You should join us, I’m buying.”

It’s an unexpected invitation, even if Mikey and Jon talk at the hospital it’s not like they’re actually friends. Mostly it feels like an extension of the extra tubs of jello and sandwiches that tend to appear on Frank’s tray, and Mikey’s about to make his excuses when his stomach growls, He shakes his head, says, “Sorry, I have to get back.”

“You’ve got time for a hot dog,” Jon says, and indicates the stand that’s over the road, where, under the shade of a bright striped umbrella, a man is peering at the menu that’s been chalked on a board. “Come on, Brendon will be there forever if I don’t hurry him up.”

While Mikey’s still at a point where pride is important, so is getting to eat. It’s why he says, “He won’t mind me crashing your plans?”

Jon smiles, seemingly genuinely pleased that Mikey’s agreed. “More like he’ll be thrilled about having someone new to talk to.”

When he’d left the hospital hours before, Mikey hadn’t planned on eating hot dogs and talking to some stranger, but he’s willing to embrace the change. Following Jon across the road, he takes his own place under the umbrella, standing a little back as Jon makes introductions.

“Brendon, this is Mikey, Mikey, Brendon.”

It seems to be the only introduction Jon’s going to give, like him turning up with a stranger is something Brendon’s perfectly used to. Maybe it is, because all Brendon does is grin, and says, “Hi. Mixing sweet onion and chili, what do you think?”

“That you’re asking for food poisoning,” Mikey replies, grossed out as he imagines what the mixture would look like.

“Awesome,” Brendon says, and looks over at Jon. “That’s what I’m having, a chili dog with extra chili and sweet onion, with pickles on top.”

“It’s your digestive system,” Jon says easily, and he nudges Brendon to one side so he’s not blocking the menu. “What about you, Mikey?”

Quickly, Mikey scans the board, looking for something that’s not too expensive. “I’ll have the original with ketchup and mustard.”

“Sticking with the classics, a good plan.” Jon pulls out his wallet and within minutes has ordered, and is handing over hot dogs to both Brendon and Mikey. Then, without asking he pays for three sodas, and passes a cup over to Mikey. “You like Coke, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Mikey says, and he keeps tight hold of the cup and hot dog, his fingers starting to tear through the napkin that’s already soaking though with ketchup.

Brendon takes a bite of hot dog and bun, chewing as he says, “We usually eat over there.”

He leads Mikey toward a bench in a small park that’s nestled between the surrounding buildings. Stepping through the gates it feels like they’re cut off from the world, the traffic noise fading as they follow a path to the nearest empty bench. Mikey sits, taking in the people who’re also eating their lunches, either sitting on benches or sprawled on the grass.

Taking a drink of his soda, Mikey shuffles along making room for Jon. For a while they eat and drink in companionable silence, then Jon looks over at Brendon, says, “Any news about the grant yet?”

Brendon shakes his head and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. “Not yet, Lindsey keeps calling but they say they haven’t made a decision.”

“Fucking bureaucrats.” Jon crumples up his used napkins and throws them into the trashcan as he explains. “Brendon’s volunteering at Phoenix House, the outreach center I was telling you about. It’s how we met.”

“He patched me up when I fell off a shelf,” Brendon says, and pushes back his hair to show a tiny scar on his forehead. “I got hit by a mop.”

“Mops can be mean like that,” Mikey says, and can’t help his own small smile when Brendon grins in response.

“That’s what I keep saying, and that one was like, a ninja mop.”

“Apparently it was an epic battle,” Jon says dryly. “One that ended in bloodshed.”

Brendon stretches out his legs and sighs, long and tragic. “I suffer for my work and no one understands that.”

“I understand that you’re full of shit.” Jon takes a long drink of his soda, looking at Mikey over the brim of the cup. “He follows Lindsey around like a puppy, and loves what he does.”

Brendon brings his finger up to his mouth, “Shush, you’re giving away my secrets.”

“Because you keep your worshiping on the down-low,” Jon says, but still changes the subject, slightly at least. “Lindsey’s in charge of the outreach center, the residential building is her baby. I try and volunteer there on my days off.”

“You actually get days off?” Mikey asks, and while he’s mostly joking, each day Frank’s been in the hospital, Mikey’s seen Jon there too.

“Technically.” Jon slurps at his drink, then pitches the cup, making it bounce off the rim of the trashcan. “I do a lot of overtime.”

“And volunteer too,” Mikey says, and then adds, “Do you give the homeless the clothes off your back?”

Brendon laughs, looking between Mikey and Jon. “Have you seen what he wears? They wouldn’t want them.”

Jon checks his watch and then stands. “You’re just jealous, and I need to get back.”

“Yeah, me too,” Mikey says, swallowing the last bite of his hot dog and keeping hold of his soda. “Lunch hour’s nearly over.”

Jon looks directly at Mikey. “Burgers to serve and milkshakes to make, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Mikey says, and can’t shake off the unsettling feeling that Jon doesn’t believe a word.

~*~*~*~

Ryan meets Spencer in the parking lot of _Denny’s_. It’s where they usually meet up if apart on a night, somewhere that’s always open, and with lights and nearby people that provide an element of safety.

Tonight Spencer’s waiting close to the lobby, a take out cup cradled in both hands, the steam from the vent curling up in a thin stream. When Ryan walks close, Spencer holds out the cup and says, “It’s hot chocolate. Penny’s working, she added whipped cream.”

“With chocolate sprinkles?” Ryan asks, and tries to peer through the small hole into the cup.

“Of course,” Spencer says, as if having a hot chocolate with sprinkles goes without question. He looks Ryan from head to toes, says, “I can’t see any new bruises.”

“Haven’t got any.” Ryan takes a drink, his tongue and throat burning as he swallows. As always the hot chocolate is extra sweet, and the sugar rush hits hard, rolling over old aches and the cold. Hands wrapped around the cup, Ryan says, “It was a quiet night, and Pete was there.”

Spencer takes the cup, and takes a sip before handing it back. “Was he wearing his cat ears?”

“He had to leave them behind in some motel room.” Which is sad because Ryan wanted to see them, but he knows anything left behind will never be found. “He’s going to make some more.”

Spencer gives Ryan a long look. “Tell me he’s only making one pair. You’re enough of a target without presenting yourself as some furry bullshit.”

Ryan takes a drink and starts to walk, his steps hurried and looking away from Spencer. “He doesn’t wear them for that, and no, I didn’t. I’m not stupid.”

“I know you’re not, but....”

“But nothing,” Ryan interrupts, and reminds himself that this is just one of Spencer’s things, that he’s looking out for Ryan and doesn’t actually think that Ryan’s not capable of taking care of himself. Because Ryan _can_ , he has been for a long time, and if sometimes that looking after himself if in a different way to how others would do it. Well, that’s fine.

“I know you’re not stupid.” It’s almost two blocks before Spencer speaks again, and when he does he sounds tired, like he’s deliberating over each word. “I just worry.”

And that’s the thing, Spencer does worry, obsessing over the little things he can actually change. Like getting Ryan to go to the clinic and making sure he doesn’t stick out more than he already does. It’s something Ryan’s known for a long time, and why Spencer’s such a good friend.

Ryan waits a few beats, then says, “I’d have wanted fox ears.”

“Of course you would,” Spencer says, and though he still sounds tired he’s also smiling as he takes a step to the side, bumping Ryan with his hip. “I supposed you’d want a tail too.”

“Of course.” Ryan can’t understand why anyone _wouldn’t_ have a matching tail if they had fox ears, just the thought is all wrong. “That’s like peanut butter without jelly, or ketchup without bread.”

Spencer rolls his eyes and takes back the now tepid hot chocolate. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“It’s okay,” Ryan says, magnanimous now that Spencer’s realized his mistake. “I forgive you.”

“And here I was worried about sleeping tonight.” Spencer drains the hot chocolate and then takes the top off the cup. “Here.”

Ryan takes the offered cup, and wipes his finger around the sides, scooping up the left over whipped cream. There’s not much, and it’s more foam that actual substance, but it’s still sweet, and it’s still food. Comforting as Ryan sucks his fingers and then throws the cup in the trash.

“Impressive,” Spencer says, when the cup drops in at the end of a perfect arc. “You’ve been practicing.”

Ryan holds his hands in the air, celebrating victory as he says, “Always, it’s what I do, suck cock, get fucked, practice making baskets in trash cans.”

Spencer sticks up his two thumbs. “You’re a super star.”

“You know it,” Ryan says, and drops his arms, wrapping them around his body as they keep walking toward home.

~*~*~*~

“Mom makes the best soup when I’m sick.” Frank’s lying back in his nest of pillows, his hand on his chest, the line from his IV stretching over the bed. The tape around the cannula is curling, and he plays with the edges, running it under his fingers. “Remember, she made some for you that time you had the flu. It had extra garlic.”

Mikey remembers Frank turning up in his bedroom, a container of soup held in his arms, how he’d eaten some too and talked about vampires and an immunity to Way germs before starting on a quest to kiss Mikey better.

“She makes awesome soup,” Mikey says, and stretches his neck, to one side than the other. This early his whole body feels stiff, his legs cramped after sitting so long and his back aching. When he’s gathered the energy he’ll make a stealth run for the staff room and the coffee maker Jon pointed out. But right now Mikey’s too tired, and he keeps still, lying draped on the bed, his head resting on Frank’s stomach.

“The best,” Frank agrees, and he starts to stroke Mikey’s hair, pushing his hand through the tangles. “You should go home early, hit the shower.”

“Is that some kind of hint?” Mikey turns his head and looks along Frank’s chest, over the white sheet and hospital gown and up to Frank’s face. “Because you need to work on your subtlety.”

Frank keeps stroking Mikey’s hair, his mouth curled into a smile. “There’s nothing subtle about it. You need to go shower, you could wring your hair out and use the grease to cook burgers.”

“It’s a style choice, not grease,” Mikey says, and this is a conversation they’ve had countless times, except this time Frank won’t end up pulling Mikey into the bathroom, using a combination of bribed blow jobs and force.

“I wish....” Frank starts to say, and then he starts coughing, hacking coughs that leave him trembling, his face bright red as Mikey pushes himself up and supports Frank with one arm, grabbing a cardboard bowl with the other. Holding it in place, Mikey feels helpless, able to do nothing as Frank fights to bring up the crud that stubbornly remains on his chest.

When he’s finished, Mikey eases Frank down, ensuring he’s settled and his oxygen cannula hasn’t slipped out of place. When he’s sure, Mikey puts the bowl to one side, covering it with a paper towel.

Frank looks exhausted, his eyes closed and breathing heavily. His voice rough as he says weakly, “Kermit or Slimer?”

Mikey’s standing at the foot of the bed, gripping the side bars and needing the support. He takes a step forward, thigh brushing against the blanket until he can sit, propped on the edge and looking at Frank. “Something in-between, like Kermit was put in a blender.”

“Awesome,” Frank says, and he opens his eyes the slightest amount. “I’m tired. If you wanted to go now’s a good time.”

“And you say you don’t do subtle.” Mikey leans forward, and brushes a kiss against Frank’s cheek, feeling the heat that still radiates out from his skin. “I’ll be back after work.”

“I’ll be waiting.” Frank’s eyes close again, and he says, almost inaudible. “And if you wanted to make me some soup....”

“I’ll bring you some back,” Mikey says, and he will. Somehow.

~*~*~*~

When Lindsey sees Ryan and Spencer approach she puts her hands on her hips and says, “Admit it, you’re after the record.”

Thrown, Ryan shoots Spencer a look, because the only record he’s talked about lately is the one he discussed with the others before having to move his spot, and Ryan’s sure Lindsey’s got no need to know who can blow a john the fastest.

Lindsey’s holding an armful of posters, and she thrusts them at Spencer, her attention on Ryan. “I meant the record for most clinic visits in a week, and if you’re thinking times I don’t want to know.”

“Times? And no, I’m okay, I mean, mostly.” As always being around Lindsey has thrown Ryan off kilter and he stares over her shoulder, the corner of his vision filled with dark hair and a bright lipsticked smile. “We’ve come for condoms.”

“Brendon’s giving them out today, he’s in the usual place,” Lindsey says, and she takes out a roll of tape from the pocket of her overalls. “But if you have time I could use a hand for a few minutes.”

Spencer juggles the posters he’s carrying, tucking most under his arm as he unrolls one, reading what it says. “You’re having the reverse clothes drive already?”

“The stock room is almost full,” Lindsey says. “And fall’s moving in fast. I need to get the clothes out as soon as possible.”

“You’re telling me it’s coming in fast, I was freezing last night,” Spencer says, and he rolls up the poster, tucking it safe with the others. “Have you got any sneakers in that stock room? Mine are worn through.”

Lindsey grins, and slips the roll of tape over her wrist. “I persuaded a sports store to donate. They were surprisingly generous.”

“I bet they were.” Spencer’s grinning too, and Ryan envies him the easy way he can talk to Lindsey. It’s something Ryan’s tried but simply can’t do, always too aware of how he has to appear.

“I’ll have you know I was perfectly polite,” Lindsey says, and she takes a poster as she walks to the noticeboard that’s by the door into the clinic. “I even said thank you.”

“Impressive.” Spencer hands most of the posters to Ryan, then rolls one out, holding it against the notice board as Lindsey secures the corners. “Miss Manners would be proud.”

Lindsey pulls out a length of tape, tearing it off with her teeth. “Well you know, running this place, helping people, maintaining a baseline of etiquette, it’s all in a days work.”

“If I had any I’d give you a gold star.” Spencer slides his hand down the poster, weighing down the bottom. “Ryan needs a sweater before fall, blue isn’t his color.”

Head tilted to one side, Lindsey checks the positioning of the poster and then nods her approval before looking toward Ryan. “How’d you feel about snowflakes?”

Before Ryan could have said that they’re pretty, second hand knowledge coming from pictures and books, but a winter of experiencing actual snow has destroyed that notion. Now all he can say is, “They’re cold.”

“The ones I’m thinking of aren’t,” Lindsey says, and starts walking again, following the side of the building. “They may be a little big though.”

“You want me to dress as a snowflake?” Ryan tries to understand how that could even happen, if some theatre had donated old costumes or even a fancy dress store. Not that Ryan would actually be opposed to a situation like that, but he would like to get through the cold days without freezing, and a snowflake doesn’t seem to cut it.

Lindsey’s mouth twitches, like she’s trying to hide a smile. “No, but I have some donated sweaters that are heavy on the snowflakes, and reindeer.”

“Like we don’t go through enough doing what we do,” Spencer says, and slides another poster from the stack. “Where’s this one going?”

“In the lobby of the residential unit,” Lindsey says, and when they reach the door into the unit she punches in the code on the lock, letting them all in.

Inside is a riot of color, the walls painted bright blue and the doors trimmed with yellow. On the wall next to the stairs, a notice board dominates. It’s already covered in posters, hand written notes and printed out rules for the unit. Ryan takes a step forward, reading about fire safety and people giving away furniture, about meet ups in the common room and cheap places to buy food.

“It’s one of the residents who arranged the poetry slam,” Lindsey says, busy taping up a poster in one corner of the board. “She was an English lit major before.”

It’s a conversational opening Ryan could jump on to. But even the thought of the classes he used to attend and love, and the future he thought he held in his hands makes him feel anxious. Ryan looks toward the exit, hoping Spencer will be ready to go, but Spencer’s too interested in their surroundings, looking at this part of the building they’ve never been into before.

“It’s bigger than it looks from outside,” Spencer says, from where he’s looking upstairs.

“I wish it could be bigger.” Lindsey sticks a final piece of tape, and says, “We’ve already added as many rooms as possible, it means they’re not very big, but they’re warm and safe.”

“A place to call home,” Ryan says, and somewhere close there’s the sound of laughter, footsteps as someone walks on the floor above.

“More like a place to rest before you go on,” Lindsey corrects, and her expression is soft, her love for this place obvious. “But until then, yeah, it’s a home.”

That it’s not one for Ryan and Spencer is unstated. They all hear it anyway.

~*~*~*~

Right now Mikey has to keep moving. The only thing that matters is the sound of his feet hitting the sidewalk. The beat urges him on, around corners taken at random, and along streets that are starting to empty, the early morning commuters left behind.

The tight focus is comforting, Mikey needing the rest of not thinking. Until he does stop, his legs aching and so thirsty that his tongue feels like it’s furred. Close by there’s a coffee shop, one that seems to be independent from any chain, with checked curtains in the window and the two metal tables outside chained to the wall. Mikey stares, watching as inside, customers line up and get served.

There’s an older woman behind the counter and she smiles at each customer, handing over cups and mugs, plates that hold pastries and sandwiches, and Mikey wants each one. It’s self inflicted torture to stand here and keep watching, and Mikey tells himself to walk away -- but he doesn’t.

Instead he thinks about walking in and saying he’s forgotten his wallet, asking if he can have some water to drink. That’s easy, simple, but Mikey can’t. Which is ridiculous, and Mikey would laugh that it’s water and soup that’s causing these problems. The thing is though, if he does laugh Mikey knows he won’t stop.

His control slipping, Mikey starts walking again, but his focus is lost. All Mikey can think of is his thirst, once he’s dealt with that he’ll be able to tackle Frank’s soup. Go to his old work maybe and beg a favor, finally find a job that’ll pay cash in hand. Anything. But first Mikey needs that drink.

Which he can hopefully finally get, when he approaches a park, and sees a public bathroom inside. A public bathroom that has to have a sink.

It’s a small park, and one Mikey’s never seen before. Which isn’t surprising, Mikey really isn’t a park kind of person, at least he wasn’t. Now he’s learned to appreciate a place to sit in solitude, away from the stares of the people around him. He especially appreciates the ones that come with bathrooms, even if this one doesn’t look the best.

The brick building is built close to the park walls, and is surrounded by rusted iron bars, the tops of each rail bright with raw metal, like the points have been sheered off in a rush. Stepping over the trash that litters the path, Mikey goes inside, and tries to breathe through his mouth at the stench of old piss.

If it wasn’t for the sink in the corner, the faucet rusted but dripping, Mikey would turn and walk out. But the sink _is_ there, and that dribble of water is enough that he ignores the stained walls and stall with no door, the cracked urinals and a floor that feels slimy.

Up close the sink looks no better, the bowl more brown than the original white, and the plug long gone. Mikey puts his hand under the water, then licks at the drips as he turns the faucet, forcing it around with a screech. At first no more water appears, then the stream starts to sputter and Mikey collects the water in his cupped hands.

It tastes bad, there’s no getting around that, stale, like its been collecting in a tank somewhere and became stagnant. That doesn’t stop Mikey drinking again, water dripping from his mouth and nose as he waits for enough to collect in his hands.

The third handful Mikey uses to splash his face, tepid water running down his neck as he takes another drink, and then finally straightens, drying his hands on his thighs. Damp, his thirst slackened for now, Mikey looks at himself in the metal mirror attached to the wall. Even with the distortions he can see the shadows under his eyes, how his cheeks are hollowed and hair slicked back and dirty. Mikey isn’t even close to looking his best, to looking okay even, and he’s all too aware that the chance of him finding any kind of work is remote.

Facing that hurts. Mikey’s chest is tight and his head aches and the urge to say, enough, I give, and go and phone Linda or Gerard is immense. The only things that’s stopping him is Frank, who’s belief in Mikey has never faltered, and the knowledge that one conversation with Gerard will tear open barriers that Mikey’s fought to put up.

And Mikey isn’t the person he was back then. He got out, carved a life with Frank, and if he’s done it once he can do it again. It’s just a case of staying strong now. Of going out and doing what needs to be done.

“I can do this,” Mikey says to himself, trying to bolster his own self-belief. “For me and for Frank.”

“You know, talking to yourself is a sign of insanity.”

Mikey turns, and sees a man standing in the doorway to the bathroom. He’s wearing a suit, a white shirt, a striped tie that’s tied in a small knot. Elsewhere Mikey wouldn’t give him a second glance, but here he’s out of place, jarringly so as he stands in one place.

“I was just....” Mikey trails off, he was talking to himself, there’s no explaining that away. But he’s not about to explain why, especially not to some guy who’s blatantly staring. “I was just going.”

“Shame.” The man makes no attempt to move away from the door, and he looks Mikey from head to toe, then abruptly says, “How much for a blow job?”

The proposition is unexpected, and momentarily Mikey’s lost for words, then he says, “I’m not. I don’t do that shit,” and goes to push his way outside.

The man stands his ground, his hand on the door frame, blocking the exit. “Don’t bullshit me, I was told this is a place to find a hooker. So tell me the price already.”

Rationally, Mikey knows he needs to leave; now. It’s the sensible option, and he takes a step forward, then stops, caught in his own thoughts. The insane idea that if he stays and does this he’ll get the money he needs, so he can go out and get Frank what he wants. Maybe pay a visit to a laundromat and buy a real cup of coffee. They’re little things that Mikey misses, and it’s not like he hasn’t done this before, in the time before dating Frank. Just, then it was in the backseats of cars or in the bathrooms of clubs, sex used as a distraction.

Unlike now, when it would be used only for money, and as the idea takes root, Mikey justifies to himself it isn’t that different. That he’ll only do it this once. That having some cash in his pocket will calm down his worries. Impulsively, he says, “Thirty.”

“Twenty-five,” the man says, “And if you’re good you’ll get thirty.”

Before, Mikey would have made some quip about always being good, now, all he does is nod, and then drops to his knees and says, “Come here, away from the door.”

Already moisture is seeping through the knees of Mikey’s pants, and at this level he can see discarded condoms thrown into the corner. Looking away he reminds himself this means money, a few minutes and he’ll have what he needs.

It’s something he repeats to himself as the man stands close and says, “Well, get to it.”

Mikey reaches out, unfastening the man’s belt, and within seconds knows he’s been kidding himself. This is nothing like the times before, where even if Mikey didn’t know names he knew faces. This is a total unknown and Mikey fumbles at the belt buckle and buttons.

“Jesus Christ, it’s good that you’re pretty,” the man says, and he takes hold of his own pants, unfastening them and pushing them down to his thighs, along with his boxers. “If they touch the floor you get nothing.”

It’s an unfair condition that means Mikey has to angle his body, his hands on the man’s pants, fingers against the folds of material and the pale skin of his thighs. He tilts up his head, swallowing, trying to get moisture into his mouth.

Without the additions of thumping music, dark lights and attraction, all Mikey’s left with is cold, clinical fact. If he could he’d take off his glasses, blurring the reality of damp pubes and veins, how the man is already hard, pre come glistening at the head of his cock as he demands, “Suck me, already.”

Mikey swallows again, and he feels cold, disconnected from himself at the first hesitant touch of his tongue. He licks over the man’s cock, tasting sweat and a background hint of soap. It’s a combination that rolls Mikey’s stomach, and he suppresses a dry heave as he swallows the man down, his lips mouth held tight and spit trailing over his bottom lip as he pulls out and back in.

“Yeah, that’s it,” the man says, and he’s making no attempt to touch Mikey, just thrusts his hips increasingly harder, short, sharp thrusts that hit at the back of Mikey’s throat.

Mikey clutches the man’s pants, fingers curled under the leather of his belt and tries to brace himself, his knees sliding on the wet floor. He breathes through his nose and makes sure his lips keep a tight seal, needing this to be over.

“Use your tongue too,” the man demands between pants. “Over my dick.”

Mikey does, licking in long stripes with each thrust, and wishes he’d done it sooner when soon, the man gasps, and comes without warning.

Silently, he pulls out, trailing come over Mikey’s bottom lip and over his chin. He wipes it away when the man grabs hold of his pants, pulling them up as Mikey drags the back of his hand over his mouth.

“Here.” The man takes out his wallet and hands over three tens. “Go buy yourself a sandwich or something.”

The words themselves are dismissive, but the way he doesn’t look at Mikey at all are even more so. Mikey takes the money, clutching it in one hand as the man adjusts his tie and then leaves.

Mikey waits, his knees aching and throat sore. Wipes at his eyes with his hands and then stands and walks for the door.

~*~*~*~

When Ryan arrives at Fifth it’s no surprise to see Pete. But it is a surprise to see that he’s talking to Ray, someone that should be back at the old spot with all of the others. It makes no sense that he’s here, and Ryan all but runs toward them, skidding to a halt as he says, “What’s the matter? Is it Spencer?”

“Is it exhausting to be so pessimistic?” Ray asks, and then adds, “Spencer’s fine.”

“It is exhausting,” Pete says, before Ryan gets a chance to reply, and he leans back against the wall, as if too tired to keep himself upright. “But sometimes it’s the only thing that fits.”

“A pessimist is never disappointed, yeah?” Ryan says, and doesn’t ask if Pete’s had a bad night, because the fact that he has is obvious, from the way he’s both pulled in tight on himself and his grin that’s just too big and too bright.

“Think the worst and you still get the worst,” Pete says, and then, like he’s thrown some kind of internal switch, he visibly relaxes. “Ray was telling me Walt’s expanding his area again.”

Ray nods. “He sent me here, said it’s my new regular spot.”

“That makes no sense.” Ryan looks from Pete to Ray, trying to work out what Walt is doing. It feels like every time Ryan thinks he understands this new set up it changes under his feet, and now he’s left in a spot with very little through traffic and worked by three people. Something Walt will be aware of, even if he doesn’t own Pete. “Did he say why?”

“Does he ever explain anything?” Ray says with a shrug. ”I just go where I’m told.”

“He’s pulling a Field of Dreams.” Pete’s walked to the curbside, and looks along the road in each direction. “If you build it they’ll come. Just instead of baseball it’s hookers and johns.”

Automatically, Ryan says, “Sex workers,” but he’s thinking about what Pete said and how it makes sense. “He’s putting the word out, for the johns to come here.”

Pete sits, settling himself on the side of the road, his chin resting on his bent knees. “And he’s providing the goods when they get here.”

“Fucking slimy bastard,” Ray says, and he turns his attention to Ryan. “How bad is this really? I need the money.”

“It’s getting better.” It’s all Ryan can say, because even with the johns sent his way, trade is still down compared from before he was moved. “Think your regulars will come here?”

“Bob said he’d tell them,” Ray says, and he rubs at his forearms, his back against a sudden gust of wind. “I hope so, most arrive in cars.”

Ryan’s sure that they will. He’s spent a long time watching Ray, taking hints from someone who’s been in the business for so long. It’s how Ryan knows Ray’s regulars are steady, and mostly the good kind, who take without hurting.

With the area deserted, and Pete needing space, Ryan stays close to Ray. He’s someone Ryan’s known for a while, and the silence is comfortable between then. Enough that when Ray says, “How’s Spencer?” Ryan actually gives more than a one word reply.

“He’s thinking of taking a class, one of the ones offered at Lindsey’s.” It’s more than Ryan intended to share, but Ray’s listening carefully, giving Ryan his full attention, and most importantly, doesn’t look scornful, like Spencer taking a class would be pointless.

“He should,” Ray says. “Education is important.” It’s a statement that could easily be condescending, but Ray sounds like he believes what he’s saying. Something that’s proved as he continues with, “I’m a few credits away from getting my GED. Once I get that I’m out of here.”

“I didn’t know,” Ryan says. He tries to imagine the scene without Ray, but when he does it feels wrong. Ray’s always been here, since the first day Ryan and Spencer arrived, cold, afraid and alone. Not that it means Ryan wants him to stay, because if people can get out, they should. As far away as possible.

“Not many people do.” Ray glances at Pete, and then at Ryan, utterly serious. “I’ve been saving up to buy myself out and if Walt finds out I’m fucked. You can tell Spencer but nobody else.”

When it comes to his friends, promises are things that Ryan casts in stone, and he says, “I promise.”

Ray reaches out and grabs Ryan in a hug, squeezing tight, his head buried against Ryan’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

Ryan pats Ray’s shoulder, then stands still, enjoying the hug, except for one thing, a concern that takes root and wont leave. As Ray starts to pull back, Ryan says, “When you go, will you say goodbye?”

“If I can,” Ray says. “If I can, I will. That’s a promise.”

It’s not what Ryan wanted. The possibility of yet another person leaving without saying goodbye. But he understands why it could happen, it’s why, the promise of trying has to be enough.

~*~*~*~

While he’s tempted by other things, like food or a soda, the first thing Mikey buys is more time at the storage unit, making sure their belongings are safe while he gets back onto his feet.

The second is a more of a frivolous purchase: Mikey buys a magazine, something glossy and new, that Frank can browse through at leisure. Then he goes to a deli located next to the hospital, where he buys a carton of blended vegetable soup, complete with added garlic. He also buys a small drip coffee to go and a tube of mints, and alternates eating them and drinking the coffee on the walk back.

Despite that, Mikey’s mouth still feels rank, and when he reaches the lobby, he goes into the bathroom and takes a long drink of water. He takes another when his teeth still feel coated, his tongue and throat raw.

His stomach full and feeling queasy, Mikey checks the soup and magazine are safe on the counter, and turns on the faucet, pumps soap onto his palm and rubs his hands together under the hot water. He washes his hands and forearms, over his mouth and face, then dries off with paper towels.

When he’s perfectly dry, Mikey looks into the mirror, and sees the same person he was hours before. Which is good, because Mikey needs to look the same, even if he doesn’t feel it.

~~~~

“You got me soup,” Frank says, and turns his head on his pillows as he smiles a greeting. “And a magazine, is it payday already?”

“They fronted some money,” Mikey says, and grabs the rolling table, positioning it so it’s over Frank’s bed. “I got you vegetable, the guy said it’s got magical healing powers. That or it would put hairs on your chest, I couldn’t really tell.”

“Hopefully it was the first,” Frank says, wincing as he pushes the button to raise the head of the bed even more. “I couldn’t pull off a chest rug.”

“I don’t like hair in my teeth, anyway” Mikey says, and takes off the lid of the soup.

“Another vote for magic then, awesome.” Frank takes the carton, holding it in both hands, and takes a sip. “It’s good, garlickly.”

Mikey pulls the chair close to the top of the bed and then sits, his feet against the wheels of the table. “I tried to remember what was in Linda’s recipe, and asked for extra garlic.”

Frank takes another sip, and then holds the carton against his chest, so the steam flows past his face. “It’s close to hers, but not as good. You know...”

“She’s your mom, of course hers is best,” Mikey says, and he lets his eyes close and sits quietly, basking in the sunlight that floods into the room.

“You’re a fucking tease.”

At Frank’s words Mikey opens his eyes, and sees Frank’s staring, the soup carton still cradled to his chest. Confused, Mikey says, “What?”

“I’ve got a tube stuck up my dick and you’re sitting like that.”

“Oh,” Mikey says, and even though he feels sorry for Frank’s situation he can’t help being pleased that, even now, Frank looks and sees something he wants. “How about a rain-check, for when it’s gone?”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Frank takes another sip of soup, but as he swallows he starts to cough, the carton tilting and beginning to spill.

MIkey grabs it, and sets it to one side, pushing away the table as he helps Frank to sit up and reaches for a cardboard bowl from the stack on Frank’s locker. Propped against the edge of the bed, Frank’s body resting against him, Mikey rubs Frank’s back, comforting as much as he’s able as Frank brings up more crud from his lungs, mixed with the little bit of soup he’s managed to eat.

His eyes streaming and in-between coughs, Frank gasps out, “Sorry.”

“For what?” Mikey says softly, and he keeps rubbing, pushing back Frank’s hair when it sticks to his face.

Finally, when Frank’s breathing easier, Mikey lowers the head of his bed slightly and uses a tissue to wipe away the sweat from Frank’s brow, the vomit and phlegm that’s collected at the sides of his mouth. Dropping the tissue into the bowl, Mikey picks up a plastic cup filled with water, guiding the straw into Frank’s mouth, then holds it steady until he manages a drink.

That done, Frank closes his eyes, exhausted and barely audible as he says, “I threw up your soup.”

Mikey wipes at flecks of vegetables on his t-shirt and sits back in the chair. Taking hold of Frank’s hand, he wraps his fingers around Frank’s and says, “It’s okay, I can get more.”

Frank curls up his fingers, says, “Thank you.”

~*~*~*~*

Ryan likes Lindsey’s reverse clothes drives, they remind him of going shopping when he was younger. Except then he visited shops with his dad, or even at times, Spencer’s family, while now it’s one big room and trestle tables piled high with donations.

Each table is stacked high with clothes, shoes in line on the floor, while bedding and blankets have their own piles. Ryan’s itching to get in, but slows down to say hello to Lindsey, who picks up two large cloth bags and hands them over to Spencer and Ryan.

“Same deal as always, five dollars a bag, put in whatever you can shove in.”

Ryan’s well aware she could get more money by selling each item individually, but Lindsey always refuses, and Ryan’s glad. This way he gets clothes for the fall and winter, and hopefully warm bedding for when the weather turns cold.

Looping a bag over his shoulder, Ryan tries to see what’s on the tables as Spencer’s pays for their bags. He jumps when Lindsey suddenly yells, “Hey, Jon. Show Ryan your sweaters.”

A man standing at the back of the room waves, and starts to rummage through the clothes on a table.

“Go on,” Lindsey urges, and she’s smiling in a way that makes Ryan feel a little uneasy, like she’s enjoying a private joke. But even so, Ryan knows that Lindsey wouldn’t be mean, and with a look at Spencer, he heads for the back of the room.

“You’re looking for a sweater?” Jon says, and holds up one that looks soft and warm, but has snow flakes as part of the pattern. “Lindsey think it’s ugly.”

Ryan has to agree. He can’t even tell himself he likes it in an ironic way, because it’s just plain _wrong_. But it does look fuzzy and inviting, and Ryan finds himself reaching out, running his fingers over a sleeve. Still, he has to say, “She’s right, it is ugly.”

Jon smiles, slow, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “The ugliest. It’s why I bought it.”

“You donated it?” Ryan doesn’t know if he should say that he’s sorry, or was joking, and he wishes Spencer were here to help deflect attention, even if it would end up with him laughing at Ryan in private.

“I did,” Jon says, and he’s carefully folding the sweater, adding it back to the pile. “But I bought more and there’s only so many sweaters a person should have.”

“You bought more ugly sweaters?” Ryan could bite his own tongue, the question slipping out, but all Jon does is keep smiling.

“Ugly sweaters are awesome, and look nothing like scrubs. So, bonus.”

Ryan pretends to rummage through a stack of clothes, but keeps glancing at Jon, taking in the shadows under his eyes, and the way he yawns, hiding his mouth with his hand. Eventually, Ryan asks, “You’re a doctor?”

“A nurse,” Jon says, and he’s sorting clothes too, picking through a pile at the opposite end of the table to Ryan. “I haven’t got the brains or the money for med school. I am working on condescension and power trips though, so I can pretend.”

“You should start with sweaters,” Ryan says, and he’s got hold of the snowflake sweater, wondering if he can ignore the pattern for the resulting warmth. “Tell people they’re too stupid to see the appeal of snowflakes in knitted form.”

“Temping,” Jon says, and he holds up another sweater, this one burgundy with dark stripes. “I think this is more you, and will actually fit.”

Surprised, Ryan stares directly at Jon, because when people see Ryan they see tight t-shirts and pants, the eye make-up and wild hair, the defeated look in his eyes that to Ryan always screams, hooker. “You think I’m a burgundy stripe kind of person?”

“I think you could make it look good,” Jon says, and he holds out that sweater to Ryan. “Try it on, if you don’t like it put it back.”

Ryan shakes his head and takes the sweater, dropping it in his bag, says, “No. I like it.”

Flustered, he leaves without a thank you, hurrying away to find Spencer, who’s kneeling down, holding a pair of sneakers in each hand.

“I have a pair for you in my bag,” Spencer says, without looking up. “You’ll hate them but they’re your size and you need some.”

“You got me shoes that I’ll hate?” Ryan says, and then, “I like the blue ones better.”

Spencer turns the blue sneakers, checking both sides. “I looked, but Lindsey seems to be out of ridiculously pointed winklepickers. So I got you sneakers and we’re going to pretend that we actually had the conversation where you turned up your nose and had to be reminded your feet turned blue last winter.”

“It was only my toes,” Ryan says, trying to see into Spencer’s bag to see what he picked. “And they’re all still attached.”

“Not helping.” Seemingly making a decision, Spencer drops the blue sneakers into his bag and puts the red ones back in the line. Then he stands, looking around the rest of the room. “I’m going to see what Brendon’s offering.”

As far as Ryan knew, Spencer didn’t even know of Brendon, never mind know him well enough to spot him amongst all these tables and people. Scanning the room, Ryan’s attention is caught by someone at one of the other tables, almost hidden behind the piles as he talks. “Is that him talking to Alicia?”

Spencer looks over his shoulder. “Yeah. He came by one night, brought hot drinks for everyone.”

Ryan can’t understand why anyone would do that, at least, not without wanting something in return. “You didn’t tell me.”

“It was the night that john gave you a kicking, I was too busy cleaning you up,” Spencer says, keeping tight hold of his bag. “He turned up close to midnight. Just walked up with a tray of coffees and handed them out.”

“And people actually took them?” While it’s easy to think now, when he’s warm and sheltered, Ryan wouldn’t have done so. People just don’t do things like that, and if they do it’s for their own self interest. A set up to some scene with drugs in the coffee, or yet another person who wants to give themselves a pat on the back for helping the needy.

“Eventually,” Spencer says, and at the sound of Brendon’s laughter he looks over in that direction. “He means well.”

“He sounds like an asshole,” Ryan announces, and is about to look through the clothes on the table when Spencer grabs hold of Ryan’s bag and pulls him toward Brendon and Alicia.

“He’s not,” Spencer says, and when they get close, adds, “Be nice.”

“I’m always nice.” At Spencer’s answering snort, Ryan amends, “I’m always nice to you.”

“And now you can extend that to someone you don’t actually know,” Spencer says, and stands next to Alicia. “Hi.”

“Spencer.” Alicia’s smiling as she turns and grabs Spencer in a hug that lifts him off of his feet. With a last squeeze she sets him down and takes a step toward Ryan, who pats her back awkwardly as she grabs on and lifts. “I got a job. A real one. Brendon’s helping me pick out work appropriate clothes.”

“Congratulations.” Genuinely pleased, Ryan swaps the back patting for a quick hug of his own as he says, “Doing what?”

Still smiling, Alicia lets go of Ryan. “Working at the museum, it’s not much, just taking money at first, but they said I could train up to take tours, and they don’t care about my ink.”

“It sounds perfect for you,” Spencer says, and after months sharing an area with Alicia, Ryan has to agree.

“It’s a start.” Alicia’s smile fades, and while the happiness is still there, her body language relaxed in a way Ryan’s not used to seeing, she’s also serious. “Lindsey says I can keep living at the unit as long as I need. Then I’m getting my own place, I’m done with the streets.”

It’s something Ryan’s heard before. From people who’ve left and returned weeks later, shame-faced and beaten down even further, but also, on rare occasions, from people who have made it. And Ryan has to hope that Alicia’s one of the latter.

“I was telling Alicia she should celebrate somehow. Like have a party for you all.”

Ryan looks at Brendon over the piles of clothes. “We couldn’t afford it, and don’t usually do stuff like that anyway”

Brendon’s face falls, like Ryan’s comment is some kind of verbal smack-down. Which it’s not. Just a fact. If Brendon wasn’t an asshole trying to force his own celebrations on something he knows nothing about, Ryan would feel bad.

“He’s right,” Alicia says, stepping hard on Ryan’s toe. “I couldn’t afford a party, but I guess celebrating somehow would be good.”

“You could use the common room,” Brendon suggests. “I’m sure Lindsey won’t mind.”

“I’ll ask her.” Alicia’s grinning again, and she puts her bag on her shoulder and starts to walk toward Lindsey who’s still manning the door. “If she says yes you’d all better come.”

Brendon grins. “I’ll be there.”

“We all will,” Spencer says, giving Ryan a long look. “Won’t we?”

Reluctantly, Ryan says, “Yeah.”

~*~*~*~

Frank is getting better, Mikey knows that, but it seems to be taking forever.

Each step forward is tortuously slow, and as much as Frank complains and says he’s well enough to go home, it’s obvious he can’t. Not when the slightest exertion leaves him breathless and he spends most of his time lying in bed.

Frank’s in the place that he needs, but that leads to a problem. In that Mikey’s got no way to pay. Even the charitable status of the hospital doesn’t help completely, a sliding scale no use when you’re starting with nothing. It’s why, even with the offer of rock bottom contributions and deferred payments, Mikey’s avoiding the main lobby, where the man who deals with finances always seems to be lurking.

Despite being sure Frank’s not about to be thrown on the street for non-payment, Mikey’s got no desire for yet another meeting filled with lies and miss-truths. It’s why Mikey’s getting to know the back corridors of the hospital, finding tucked away stairwells and exits that lead to out of the way places.

Which is where Mikey is now, slipping out of a service door and hurrying towards the hospital gates. With Jon on a later shift, Mikey’s had no breakfast and his stomach growls as he walks, hand over his pocket and the few coins he’s got left.

There’s enough for a small coffee, or a muffin, or half a carton of soup, or a tiny drop against the amount that they owe for Frank’s medical care. There’s enough for an anonymous call from a phone box, for Mikey to call home.

He’s thought about that lately. Picking up the phone and telling Linda that Frank is so ill. She’d come out and take over, take the responsibilities onto her shoulders and Mikey could leave, get away from a situation that seems more hopeless each day.

Mikey hasn’t made that call yet, but he’s close.

Nearby, the bells of a church ring, and Mikey looks at his watch. It’s early still, the city still waking as Mikey left for his pretend early shift. Even now, after walking a few blocks, the streets remain empty, and Mikey knows it’s pointless going into the main city.

He keeps moving, trying to ignore how hungry he is, and the fact that soon he has to make a decision. Run yet again, or admit everything, how he managed to lose both his job and their apartment.

Mikey doesn’t want to do either, and his stomach twists, his heart beating painfully fast. Panic pressing close, all Mikey wants is to hide, to get away from the curious looks of the few people he’s passing -- but he doesn’t have anywhere to go.

Instead Mikey keeps walking, head down, focus on the floor, and when he looks up again he’s approaching the park. The one from before.

It’s not a place he’s consciously made for. Even from here, when the bathroom is hidden behind the crumbling stone wall, Mikey feels grimy. His skin itching and mouth sour, Mikey wants to keep on going, but ahead there’s a group of school kids, a woman pushing a stroller. Their focus is on each other, and they’re not even looking at Mikey, but the thought of walking past is too much.

Mikey changes direction, needing the solitude of the park. Inside he looks for the closest bench needing to sit before his legs buckle beneath him.

Mikey sits, folds himself forward and reminds himself to keep breathing.

~~~~~

Hours of sitting have shown Mikey just how deserted this park actually is.

Hunger pushed to the back of his mind, but thirst making itself known, he’s got his arms wrapped around his body, trying to keep warm. What he should do is get up and walk to the storage locker, make up some story about checking their stuff. But that’s going to take more energy than Mikey’s got to give at the moment.

He bites at his thumbnail, pulling at already torn skin and tries to think what to do. Which would be easier if Mikey’s head wasn’t thumping and his eyes dry, feeling gritty each time he blinks. It’s impossible to hold onto a solid thought, all Mikey has are circling worries, about money and Frank, the constant lack of a place to live and a job.

More than anything he wishes he could dampen those down, even just for a while -- but he can’t. Mikey’s tried, and keeps failing. All he can think of is if he gets some money, enough that he can buy Frank what he wants, at least Mikey’ll have achieved something. No matter how little that actually is.

Mikey stands and heads for the bathroom.

It’s just as seedy today, stinking and stained, and Mikey doesn’t know what he’s doing. Just that he needs the money, and getting it this way makes sense. Just one more time so he can buy something to eat and stop feeling so shaky, so he can take Frank back more soup.

Just one more time. That’s all.

~~~~~

“Most people don’t come in so early.”

Mikey’s been caught dozing while standing. Startling awake, he sees a man standing in the doorway, but this one looks nothing like the one from before. This man is wearing a hoodie, bright sneakers and tight pants, and he’s moving directly toward Mikey, like he’s planning to touch.

Mikey tries to take a step back and bumps into the wall, frantically wondering what he’s supposed to say, or do if this guy is carrying a knife. He holds up his hand, says, “Don’t stab me, and if you doesn’t have a knife, I can blow you.”

The man stops moving, says, “As a matter of interest, what would you do if I did have a knife?”

“I know kung fu,” Mikey says, and technically it’s true, Mikey’s watched enough bad movies with Frank and Gerard that he’d be able to attempt the moves. Truthfully though, he has to admit, “I’d probably try and punch you and then get stabbed to death.”

“That’s not a good thing to admit,” the man says. “You can’t look weak if you’re working the streets.”

Mikey shakes his head, understanding the misconception but needing to put it to rest. “I’m not doing that. The street thing.”

“So what, you’re hanging around bathrooms and offering to blow people for kicks?” the man says, sounding skeptical. Delving in the pocket of his hoodie, he pulls out a candy bar and throws it toward Mikey. “Here, I’m Pete and I’m buying you lunch.”

Mikey fumbles the catch, the candy bar dropping to the ground. He scoops it up, says, “I have to stay here.”

“What you have to do is come with me,” Pete says, and takes a backward step toward the door. “I’ve been watching you, and I think you need to talk.”

Mikey doesn’t move, just remains in his place close to the wall. “To a stranger who’s just admitted watching me and could carve out my heart. No fucking way.”

Pete shrugs and pats his pocket, making it rustle. “Your choice, but I’m not about to stab you, and I have chips and soda.”

He leaves, and eventually, Mikey follows.

~*~*~*~

The car pulls to a stop and Ryan lets himself out, the towel on the seat crumpling beneath him. Maliciously he hopes it’s soaked with his blood, enough that the car seat has been ruined, but realistically knows that it hasn’t. Ryan knows his own body, and he’s nowhere near that amount of significant blood loss.

At most Ryan’s got minor cuts and bruises, the john being overly cautious, to the extent that Ryan suspects it was never an issue with blood at all. More about Ryan himself touching the car, which is ridiculous considering what they’ve just done.

The car pulls away and Ryan says, “Fucking asshole.”

Compared to the previous week, Fifth is crowded, and Pete looks over from where he’s talking to Ray and Bob. “Freak, fanatic or fetid?”

“Fanatic,” Ryan says, rubbing at the abraded skin on his wrists. “He fucked me then made me sit on a towel in his car, I should have rubbed my dick over the upholstery when he wasn’t looking.”

“I’ve wiped off on the back seat before,” Bob says casually. “And pissed in a footwell once.”

Ray snaps his fingers and points at Bob. “Yeah, that guy who made you bark like a dog, right?”

Bob scowls. “He wanted a dog, I gave him one.”

They’re stories Ryan’s heard before, but he’ll never tire of hearing them. They’re his own bond of belonging, where if Bob’s made to bark like a dog or Gabe give head in a restaurant, Ryan doesn’t feel so alone. Which is a little fucked up, but Ryan rationalises to himself if he knows that he’s doing okay.

“Speaking of dogs,” Pete says, and takes a position so he can talk to them all. “I met someone today.”

It’s the start of a story that could go anywhere, especially with Pete. It’s also a story he seems in no hurry to finish, and Ryan prompts, “And, what? He took you shopping at Rodeo Drive? Invited you home to see his collection of fur suits? What?”

Pete grins. “I’ve told you before, that only happens in fantasies. No, I met a guy in Draper Park, he was staking out the bathroom for johns, so I told him to come here.”

The story still feels too flimsy, even Pete wouldn’t ask some random stranger to come work this area, even if he was hanging around the park bathroom. When the others ask no more questions, it’s left to Ryan to say, “Why?”

“If I hadn’t he’d have ended up dead in a bush,” Pete says, his hand pressed close to his side. “You know the kind of johns that go there. First timers and freaks.”

That’s one thing that Ryan doesn’t know first hand, but he has heard the stories, still, as friendly as Pete can be, he takes time to get close. That he’s invited this person here is unusual, that he obviously cares at all is even more so.

Not that Bob and Ray seem to see that. And again it’s Ryan who asks the question. “You don’t normally warn fresh meat. Why him?”

“He looked like he needed a friendly face,” Pete says, and then, “And he’s not fresh meat. It was an impulse thing him being there, I doubt he’ll actually turn up.”

“So your story is you talked to some stranger that you’ll never see again,” Bob says, giving Pete a long look.

“Basically,” Pete says, seemingly uncaring when Bob rolls his eyes. “We hung for the afternoon. Then he had to go.”

Bob holds up his hand, says, “You need to stop. I can’t take the excitement.”

Head tilted, Pete’s mouth quirks into a smile as he stares at Bob. “Then I won’t tell you we shared a candy bar. I’d hate for you to die on the job.”

“Good choice,” Bob says, and then, at the sound of an engine they all look up, instantly snapping into work mode as a car slows and pulls to a stop.

It’s an interesting thing to observe, like suddenly they’re all that slightly bit different, casual talk left to one side as they take their positions and wait for the john. Ryan even feels different, still himself, but with his edges filed down, so he feels blank, numb, as he tries to physically appeal.

It’s something Ryan does without thinking now, his walk changing as he approaches the roadside, how he stands with his hip cocked and looking through his eyelashes, embracing his cliché.

Car window down, the john looks at Ryan, and dismisses him with a glance, turning his attention to Pete, and then Ray and Bob. For a while he looks between them both, and then says, “How much for you both?”

“Depends what you want us to do,” Ray says, looking at Bob.

The john hesitates, and then says, “If I wanted to watch you two fuck.”

“Three hundred,” Bob says. “And no recording it.”

At first Ryan’s sure the john’s going to say no, especially to a price that’s pushed so high. Then he nods, looking straight ahead as he says, “Deal,” and closes the car window.

“Fucking Spielberg wannabes,” Bob mutters, his back to the car as he scowls. “If he brings out props I’ll make him eat them.”

“You know there’ll be props,” Ray says, his voice pitched low. “There’s always props.”

“He’s right, there is always props,” Pete says, and stands next to Ryan, watching as Bob and Ray get into the back of the car. “I like the edible ones, but now cucumbers don’t taste right unless they taste of rubber.”

Ryan stares at Pete.” Has anyone told you you’re weird?”

“Pot, kettle,” Pete says, grinning at Ryan. “It’s not like I eat the ones I’ve used. Not when I’ve bought them anyway.”

“Seriously, weird.” Ryan rubs at his arms, and then looks at his watch, working out how long he has to stay out before he can go home. It’s a long time, and needing some kind of distraction from the cold, he says, “You didn’t finish your story.”

“There’s nothing more to say.” Pete turns, his hair blowing into his eyes as he puts his back to the wind. “I saw him there, we talked, I told him the best place to sell his ass.”

As a shorthand it makes sense, but it’s the bare bones to the story and Ryan’s still curious about just what attracted Pete’s attention. “You didn’t tell me or Spencer that.”

“You were already in deep with Walt,” Pete says. “And I told you other stuff.”

Ryan remembers the first times he saw Pete. When he pulled him out of an alley, broken and bleeding, and got him back to an unknowing Spencer. The times after when Pete gave tips about reading a john, sharing them casually, like he was discussing the weather and not how to pick out the shape of a knife.

They’re tips that have helped keep Ryan alive, and he says, “You really think he’ll stay away?”

“He’s not one of us,” Pete says, and there’s no hint of any humor or smile. “So I hope so, but he’s desperate.”

“We were all desperate once,” Ryan says, and it’s true. It’s desperation that’s brought Ryan to where he is now, brought Spencer, brought every-one who’s forced to work on the streets.

Ryan hopes this new guy doesn’t turn up. But one thing he knows for sure, desperation is cruel, and tends to hold on tight.

~*~*~*~

Hours after talking to Pete and Mikey’s head is still in a mess.

It feels like an impossible task to make sense of his thoughts, as Mikey tries to think what to do. Selling his body should be a no-brainer, especially after hearing Pete’s warnings and stories, but at the same time, it also means money.

Which Mikey hasn’t got right now, and as he approaches Frank’s room he takes a moment to himself. Standing still and staring at the notice board as he pulls up his defences, hiding away his confusion and fear.

“See something interesting?” Jon appears from a nearby room, and peers past Mikey, reading the notices pinned onto the board. “I don’t think you need to worry about being pregnant.”

“Is that your considered opinion as a medical professional?” Mikey asks, taking refuge in casual conversation. “Because many movies would suggest you’re wrong.”

“If by movies you mean those sci fi horrors you and Frank watch in the middle of the night. I’ll stand corrected,” Jon says, and clasps Mikey’s shoulder. “And request that I’m allowed to watch when you lay your lizard/human hybrid.”

Mikey forces a smile. “Deal, as long as you’ll be god father to Logan Han Rorschach Iero-Way.”

“You’re a cruel man, Mikey,” Jon says. “But again, deal. I’ll be there to patch up tiny Logan’s scales when he’s beaten up for having nerd dads.”

“As opposed to him not being beaten up for being a lizard hybrid,” Mikey says, and starts to walk, heading toward Frank. “How’s he been today?”

Instantly, Jon changes, the joking of before replaced with seriousness as he says, “Dr Jane said he could get up out of bed for a while, so better.”

“Yeah?” This time Mikey’s smile is real, this step forward something to celebrate. He goes into Frank’s room, says, “I hear you got out of bed at last.”

Frank’s in his usual place, propped up on his pillows, a magazine open on his lap. When he sees Mikey he grins. “All the way to the chair, and stayed there for five minutes. And I flashed my ass at Jon.”

“No lie, it was the highlight of my day,” Jon says, from where he’s standing in the doorway. “I need to go do some work, I’ll be back later.”

“We’ll be here.” Ignoring the chair, Mikey sits on the side of the bed, leaning on one elbow as he looks directly at Frank. “So, five minutes.”

“I was aiming for six,” Frank says, and scratches under the oxygen tube the runs over his cheek. “But coughing up a lung stopped that. Apparently they’re better off inside my body”

“So I’ve heard.” Mikey lowers himself down even further, his head on Frank’s pillows. From here he can pretend Frank’s actually healthy, the close up view concealing the tubes and IV, how Frank’s cheeks are hollowed, and the skin of his lips dry and cracked in one corner.

Mikey moves in for a kiss, careful of both the oxygen line and time, experience showing Frank can only kiss for so long without it badly affecting his breathing.

When Mikey pulls back, Frank’s eyes are bright and he rests his hand on Mikey’s hip, holding him close. “I want to go home, Mikey.”

It’s something that Frank’s said often, but this is more of an actual statement, Frank getting close to the end of his patience with lying in bed and being so ill.

“Once you get better.” Cold, Mikey fights against shivers as he says, “I don’t want to carry you again, my back’s just started to feel better.”

“Fuck off,” Frank says, amusement taking over from the impatience of before. “When I get home I’ll carry you, straight into the bedroom.”

“Only if you don’t drop me this time,” Mikey says, his chest tight as he thinks about Frank fighting to get well, and then having nowhere to go when he does. It’s why Mikey makes an impulsive decision. “I swapped my shift today. I have to go in tonight.”

His eyes closing, Frank rests his head against Mikey’s. “As long as you come back after.”

“Always,” Mikey replies.

~*~*~*~

With Bob and Ray still gone, and Pete in the alley with a john, it’s quiet on Fifth.

It’s also cold, enough that Ryan’s pacing, trying to keep warm when he sees someone approach. Usually the johns arrive in their cars, but walk-ups aren’t unheard of, and Ryan keeps watch, accessing to see if this is someone he needs to proposition.

Within seconds Ryan’s sure that he’s not. The man who’s approaching is too young, dressed too light, is looking anywhere but at Ryan. Individually they’re signs Ryan could overlook, but together they result in someone just passing, or someone who wants to be here for whole other reasons. Especially when the man finally looks at Ryan and says, “Pete. He said to come here.”

Ryan’s staring, trying to see what stood out as so special to Pete. “You’re the person from the park.”

“Mikey, and I guess.”

“Pete’s blowing a john,” Ryan says, and starts to pace again, except this time he’s also putting himself on display, showing Mikey how confident he is, how he knows what he’s doing. If Spencer were here he’d call Ryan out, and attempt to talk to Mikey, who looks painfully tense as he wordlessly stands still. But Ryan can’t do that. He gives Mikey one last look and then Ryan steps away. Keeping moving, he repeatedly covers the same short stretch of sidewalk, in an attempt to distract from the lurking memories of his own first night.

They’re ones Ryan doesn’t want to revisit, and he should be telling Mikey to go before he gets in too deep. But Ryan doesn’t have that right, and wouldn’t want it anyway. What Ryan can do though, is warn Pete, who’s walking out of the alley wiping his mouth with his hand.

Ryan walks close, says, “Park guy’s here.”

Pete looks past Ryan toward Mikey, who’s got his back to them right now, staring off along the road. “Fuck.”

“Walt’s going to be pissed if he stays,” Ryan points out.

“It’s a free country.” Like always, Pete seems unconcerned at the threat, brazen, his grin wide. Which lasts for all of a few seconds, and he lets the act slip as he says, “He could get the money he needs and never come back.”

Ryan doesn’t bother replying to Pete’s statement, there’s no point, they both know the reality of taking this first step. An inevitability that was established as soon as Mikey turned up on this street. It’s why Ryan says, “Go get him to relax, no one will want him looking like that.”

Tersely, Pete nods, and starts to walk toward Mikey. As he does so, Ryan hears him say softly to himself, “I’m sorry.”

~~~~~~

Mikey goes off with his first john at twelve fifteen.

He’s gone for almost thirty minutes, and when he comes back he walks slowly, his hands clenched into fists and his expression blank.

It’s control pulled in tight, enough that it’s choking.

Ryan looks away and goes to stand with the newly returned Ray and Bob. All three turn away, the only privacy they can give as Pete says, “Put your money in your shoe, then no one can take it.”

He doesn’t ask if Mikey’s okay.

They all know he’s not.

~~~~~~

 

Ryan sits on the side of the bed, his legs crossed and carefully drying his feet. He’s dressed in thick sweats, warm and ready for sleep as soon as Spencer finishes washing and gets into bed.

This is one of the times Ryan likes best, when he’s home after a night on the street, and can sit and decompress. Listening to Spencer talk about his own night, his voice hushed as he describes the people he saw and things that he’s done. It’s changing harsh reality to shared stories, where the actual telling puts them back in the past.

His feet dry Ryan hangs up the towel and gets into bed, pulling up the cover as he watches Spencer wrap a towel around his waist and put his pants in the sink, leaving them to soak overnight.

“Then the fucker asked if he could come in my hair.” Spencer pushes his pants underwater and grabs his own sweats. “The second one this week. I don’t get the attraction.”

Ryan lies down, his hands pulled up into his sleeves. “People are weird, you know that.”

“Weird is an understatement,” Spencer says. Taking off the towel he shivers and briskly dries himself off, still mostly damp as he stands on one foot and pulls on his sweats. “Was Pete there tonight?”

“I saw what you did there,” Ryan says, and turns on his side, curling up as Spencer checks the door, ensuring the chain is in place. “But yeah, and he brought someone with him.”

“He’s found himself another stray?” Spencer turns off the light and crawls into bed, immediately sticking his cold feet onto Ryan’s. “What does he do, patrol the city and pick them up?”

“Some people would say you’re one of his strays too,” Ryan says, kicking at Spencer’s feet.

Spencer kicks back, then rests his legs over Ryan’s, pinning them down. “And they’d be wrong, you’re the stray he picked up, I just came along for the ride.”

Ryan would protest, except he knows that it’s true. He also knows that no matter how many comments Spencer makes about Pete being weird, they’re not made to be mocking or mean. Ryan lies still and looks up at the dark expanse of the ceiling, says, “Pete found him in the park, and I don’t get why he stood out, why him and why Pete talked to him for so long, and especially why Pete had to say where we all go.”

Spencer stares at Ryan, his face ghostly pale, his eyes dark, smudges at the side of Ryan’s vision. Eventually Ryan turns his head and snaps, “What?”

“I was translating the Ryan shorthand into something usable.” Spencer grabs his pillow, thumping it and turning it over. “What you’re telling me is Pete saw this new guy in a park and something about him attracted Pete’s attention. Then they talked, and Pete told the new guy he could come do his stuff at Fifth, and he did and you got jealous.”

“Close, but I’m not jealous,” Ryan says, and pictures Mikey standing at the side of the road, Pete crowding in close and explaining things that he’d previously told Ryan. “I don’t even know why he caught Pete’s attention, he never smiles and his hair sucks and ....” Ryan stops talking realizing what he’s actually saying when Spencer begins to laugh. “I’m going to shut up now.”

“No, keep going, I want to see how deep you dig that hole,” Spencer says, and he’s still smiling as he pulls the blanket up over his shoulders, creating a cocoon over him and Ryan. “Is he going to stick it out, park boy?”

Ryan thinks about Mikey’s face as he walked out of the alley, those fleeting seconds when shock was etched deep, evidence of a line that had clearly been crossed. More than anything Ryan wants to say no, that one night was enough.

Ryan nods his head, says, “He’ll be back.”

~*~*~*~

Getting back to the hospital takes longer than usual. Deliberately so, as Mikey walks slowly, following the route he’s come to know far too well. In the darkness everything is changed, shop fronts shuttered and roads empty, and Mikey can feel the money that’s tucked in his shoe, yet another reminder of what he’s just done.

At the sound of a siren, Mikey finally looks up. Despite his slow pace he’s approaching the hospital, and he heads for a crossing, then waits as an ambulance speeds past. Its lights turning the immediate area red and then blue as it speeds around the corner. Seconds later Mikey does the same.

Faced with brightly lit windows, Mikey slows even further, and searches the facade of the hospital for the window which he knows to be Frank’s. When he finds it Mikey sees it’s dimly lit, and he hopes that inside Frank is deeply asleep.

In many ways it’s a selfish hope, one that means he can sneak in and fall asleep without talking. Or have to face Frank at all, when right now Mikey feels so unstable and needing to wash, to scrub the other men from his body.

Outwardly Mikey thinks there’s nothing to see, but he can remember, and his skin crawls at the memories of hands on his body. The ache of his knees hitting the hard floor and after, how the bricks scraped at his palms as he braced himself, pants around his ankles and a stranger at his back.

It had hurt that first time, circumstances and a lack of prep combining as Mikey bit at his lip and fought off blind panic. Later it got better, a little, physically at least. But Mikey’s got the money he needed. He tells himself that’s all that matters.

All he needs now is to get cleaned up. If he’s clean Mikey knows he won’t feel so shaky, will be able to go find coffee and food and then curl up next to Frank and then sleep. All he has to do is get inside first. Mikey heads for one of the side entrances, needing to avoid the lobby with its lights and the people who linger all through the night.

Mikey gets to the stairwell, on the floor below Frank’s before being seen. Mikey’s gripping the banister, his palm burning as he drags himself up, one step at a time. When he hears a door open he considers heading back down, but it’s too late, and as Mikey reaches the last step he sees that it’s Jon.

And of course it’s Jon. It’s always Jon, who never seems to go home and always seems to be hanging around wherever Mikey goes. He’d make a glib remark about Jon loving the hospital, but it would take too much effort to speak. Right now it’s taking all of Mikey’s concentration to keep moving, when his body feels weightless and somehow the ground still manages to sway under his feet.

“Mikey.” Jon hurries toward Mikey, and takes hold of his arm, providing support. “What happened?”

Jon being there helps. He’s a solid anchor to hold onto, enough that Mikey starts to gather himself and says, “Nothing. I’m just tired. It was a busy shift.”

“Of course it was,” Jon says, and instead of heading for the next set of stairs he steers Mikey toward the doors to this floor. Pushing them open, Jon stands still for a moment and then turns right. “Come with me.”

“Frank’s room is the next floor up,” Mikey says, trying to understand why Jon’s going this way. “You’re going the wrong way.”

“Probably,” Jon says, which makes no sense, especially when he uses his keycard to access a room and leads Mikey inside. “Sit down.”

Mikey shakes his head as he looks around, taking in the small room, an examination table positioned against the far wall. “Frank will be waiting.”

“Frank’s asleep.” For a long moment Jon stares past Mikey, as if having some internal debate, then he pushes shut the door, and says, “You don’t have to tell me what happened, but you look like shit right now. You’ve got two choices. You either let me check you over or I go get the nearest doctor, and I’m warning you, the chances are you’ll be admitted overnight at least.”

That’s something Mikey can’t let happen, but he can tell Jon means what he says. Which is frustrating, and Mikey can’t help feeling angry that Jon’s interfering, just when Mikey’s found a way to sort out their problems. “I told you, I’m fine.”

For a moment Jon’s reserve seems to flicker, as if he’s doubting what he’s seeing. Then he says, “Your choice, Mikey. The doctor or me.”

Mikey wants to call his bluff, but the risk is too great. He spits out, “Fuck you, Jon, why can’t you just let me go and sleep,” and sits on the examination table, trying his best not to wince.

“Because I’m a nurse, it’s what I do,” Jon says, and pulls a pair of gloves out of the wall-mounted box. “And I try not to make a habit of letting people I like collapse in a stairwell.”

“I wasn’t going to collapse.” Sitting down is a relief, and Mikey’s able to protest, sure he’d have made it to Frank’s room just fine. “You’re over reacting.”

“Maybe.” Jon pulls on the gloves, and then sits next to Mikey, taking hold of his hand and turning it so he can look at his palm. “But I’d bet you’re hypoglycemic, add in dehydration, exhaustion and the fact you look like you’ve been worked over and I’m not taking a chance.”

“I haven’t been worked over.” That’s one thing Mikey can truthfully say, and in the quiet of the room he fights to keep his eyes open as Jon examines the grazes on Mikey’s palm, then efficiently gather supplies before carefully cleaning the scrapes with soaked gauze pads.

A last swipe, and Jon drops the used pad in a bowl, then says, “Take your t-shirt off, I want to check your back.”

“My back’s fine,” Mikey says, but at Jon’s pointed look he pulls off his t-shirt, and notices it’s stained in a few places, small patches of blood spotting the fabric.

Jon takes a clean pad, soaking it through, and gently wipes it over at spot under Mikey’s shoulder blade. “That’s a nasty scratch.”

Jon’s question is unstated, but Mikey still replies, “One of the chefs slipped.”

“And I suppose they clawed your back and knocked you against a brick wall,” Jon says. There’s no judgement in his tone, just scepticism mixed with a calmness that soothes, enough that for the first time in hours Mikey’s thoughts are starting to settle. On the verge of zoning out he keeps still as Jon applies a dressing.

Mikey rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand, surprised when Jon drops the back of the dressing into the bowl and then peels off his gloves. “Is that it?”

“I should be hooking you up to an IV at least, but there’s more chance of that being discovered and you getting admitted,” Jon says, and he takes his former place, sitting on the bed so he can look directly at Mikey. “Unless there’s something else you want to tell me about.”

Momentarily Mikey’s tempted. If he tells Jon his problems maybe some of the weight will be gone from his shoulders. It’s what Elena always said, a trouble shared is a trouble halved. But even if Mikey halved his troubles he’d still be left with half of hopeless.

It’s why he says, “It’s just been a long night.”

Jon looks unsure, but eventually he says, “You know you can talk to me, right? As a nurse or a friend.”

“I know,” Mikey says, and he pulls on his t-shirt. “But I’m okay, concentrate on looking after Frank.”

Jon reaches out, and rests his hand on Mikey’s knee. “I can do that and look after you too. I’m skilled like that.”

“You’re a superstar,” Mikey says, and as tempting as the idea of being looked after is, that’s not how this works. Mikey’s job is to offer support and take the action that’s needed. That’s just how it is -- how it always has been.

“My scrubs conceal my wings of steel,” Jon says, and then, “I’m buying you breakfast before you go up. That’s non-negotiable.”

Mikey curls his toes, feeling the money he’s got hidden. “Throw in coffee and it’s a deal.”

Jon stands and holds out his hand, says, “Deal.”

~*~*~*~

“This is a stupid idea.” Spencer’s holding a stack of leaflets, crumpling them in his hand as he goes to the nearest trash can, dropping them in. “What am I even thinking? I can’t take a class.”

“Of course you can,” Ryan says, and he pushes Spencer aside, grabbing the leaflets back out. “You can do anything. You’d ace these classes.”

It’s something Ryan believes, that Spencer’s smart and more than capable of taking this step. The problem is, getting Spencer to believe that too. Right now Ryan wants to shake him, and demand Spencer picks a class, but instead he brushes off the leaflets and hands them back over.

Reluctantly, Spencer takes them, holding them against his chest as he says, “What if I fail? People would laugh.”

“I’d punch anyone that thought about laughing,” Ryan says, fierce as he imagines anyone daring to mock Spencer. “Right in the face.”

“And then what, I get to save you when they punch back and then patch you up later,” Spencer says, and for the first time in hours he smiles at he looks over at Ryan. “As distractions go I can think of better ones.”

“I’ve got slick moves, I could knock them out first time.” Ryan brings up his fists as he tries to look fierce. “One punch and they’re out.”

“And then the flying pig would swoop down and carry you off to Wonderland,” Spencer says, and bumps shoulders with Ryan. “You don’t need to punch anyone.”

“Good,” Ryan says, and drops his hands. “Because I suck at punching, but you do need to pick a class.”

Spencer looks at the leaflets, scanning through each one yet again. Stopping at the one describing the math class he says casually, “If I join this you should go to the Poetry Slam.”

“You’re blackmailing me now?” Ryan asks, because this isn’t fair, Spencer knows how much Ryan misses words, and how now they’ve got no part in this life.

“No,” Spencer says. “I wouldn’t do that, but you’d enjoy it. You love that pretentious shit.”

“Did love,” Ryan says, and when Spencer starts to walk, Ryan automatically follows, heading for the entrance to Phoenix House.

Inside it’s busy, a line of people waiting to be seen in the clinic. Bypassing those, Ryan and Spencer take another turning, toward the community area of the building. They end up in the common room, where most of the couches are taken, Alicia sitting with her feet in Bob’s lap while Brendon’s pouring coffee from the urn in the corner.

When he sees Ryan and Spencer he grins, and holds up his mug. “You want some? It’s as disgusting as always but it’s hot.”

About to refuse, Ryan sighs when Spencer says, “Yeah, two sugars in both, and heads over toward Brendon, meaning Ryan’s got no choice but to follow.

Brendon grabs a mug from the selection on the table, fills one up and hands it over to Ryan. “I figure you’re a Big Bird kind of guy.”

Ryan takes the mug, his fingers wrapped around and covering Big Bird. “Well you thought wrong.”

“Ryan has issues with Big Bird, he says his feet freak him out,” Spencer says, waiting as Brendon fills him a mug too.

“Because they’re _wrong_.” This is a conversation Ryan’s had often with Spencer, enough that he easily slips into old protests and can forget that Brendon’s standing there listening. “He shouldn’t be able to walk with feet like that, and those legs....”

“Too spindly, too long, I know.” Spencer takes the mug Brendon hands over, and takes a drink, his grin visible behind the rim. “Basically the legs of your brother from another mother.”

“I can see it.” Brendon’s smiling wide, looking between Spencer and Ryan. “I always wanted to be the cookie monster, but mom said I had to eat other food too.”

“They can be mean like that,” Spencer says, and then, hesitantly, he holds up the leaflets. “I’ve been thinking of taking a class.”

“Yeah, which one?” Brendon asks, and he puts down his own mug, giving Spencer his total attention. “

“Math. I think. Yeah,” Spencer says, and he glances at Brendon. “I didn’t graduate, and I figure math is a good start.”

“It is.” Brendon looks to the side, craning his head so he can see out of the open door toward the corridor. “Do you want to go sign up now? Lindsey’s got the forms in her office, and while we do that you can tell me about your plans.”

It feels like time stretches as Ryan wills Spencer on, sending silent support as he teeters toward taking this first step. It’s also gives Ryan time to observe Brendon, surprised that he’s taking exactly the right tone, encouraging, but not in a wildly excessive way, like Spencer’s someone who needs to be coddled.

Eventually, Spencer turns to Ryan. “I think. I want to do this.”

“Good.” Relieved, Ryan smiles as he says, “Want me to come with?”

Spencer shakes his head. “So you can tell me that words are better than numbers?”

“Well they are,” Ryan says, and even if he and words are on the outs just now, that’s one thing he’ll always know. “Go with Brendon, I’m going to hang with Alicia and Bob.”

“Going.” Clutching his leaflets, in one hand, a mug in the other, Spencer starts to follow Brendon, then stops and says, “Thanks.”

Ryan holds up his mug in reply.

~*~*~*~

“Are you sure you want to do this?” It’s a question Mikey’s asked multiple times, but he can’t help feeling nervous. It’s feels like forever since he’s seen Frank standing up, and looking at him now, he still looks too ill to be attempting to walk.

Frank inches forward, so he’s sitting on the side of his bed, one hand clutching the stand of his IV. “Positive. I haven’t seen outside of this room for days.”

Technically it’s been well over a week, just, Frank wasn’t awake for a lot of that time, and Mikey’s not about to remind him. What he does do is crouch down, and fit a pair of slippers onto Frank’s feet.

“Stylish,” Frank says, and holds up his leg, looking at the navy slipper. “Where did you say you got these, off an old granddad’s corpse?”

“I stole them myself.” Mikey straightens, and stands so his legs are pressed against Frank’s. “If you get tired....”

“I’ll tell you and you can carry me on your back,” Frank says, and he takes hold of Mikey’s hands, holding on tight. “I’ll be fine, promise. Now pull me up.”

Despite his reservations, Mikey tightens his own grip, careful of the IV in the back of Frank’s hand, then pulls, steadying Frank as he stands.

“Whoa.” Frank wobbles, then steadies, grinning as he says, “That was a head rush.”

“Glad you enjoyed it,” Mikey says, and when he’s sure Frank’s got his balance, he steps to the side, and offers his arm for balance.

Together, they walk for the door, Frank holding onto both his IV stand and Mikey. When they get close, Frank slows, says, “Is my dress closed? I’m not giving a free show.”

Frank’s wearing his hospital gown. It falls to mid-thigh and is tied at the back, small gaps showing patches of skin and the white of Frank’s boxers. Deliberately, Mikey looks down at Frank’s ass. “It’s shut.”

“Are you checking me out?” Frank sounds delighted, and wiggles his ass for a moment. “Let’s blow this joint. I want to take you somewhere private.”

By now Mikey knows this floor well. He’s come to know the out of the way rooms and common areas where people can gather. But none of those are private, or really within easy reach for Frank, who’s already wheezing slightly but trying to hide it.

Mikey’s tempted to turn around and insist they go back, but Frank’s expression is set, and Mikey knows they’re going somewhere, just so Frank can prove that he can.

Making a quick decision, Mikey turns right, says, “This way.”

They’re heading toward the elevators, and the small room beside them, where there are chairs and most important, a window that looks to the back of the hospital. It’s a place Mikey’s used when he couldn’t stand another moment in Frank’s room, when it was too hot and too quiet and Frank was unconscious and struggling for breath.

A walk that should be less than a minute takes much longer, Mikey keeping Frank upright as they slowly walk the corridor. On the way they pass people that Mikey’s come to know, the custodial staff, nurses and doctors that he now knows by name. Most smile as they pass, some saying a few words, and by the time they reach where they’re going, Frank’s own smile has returned.

“Typical, while I’ve been sick you’ve been charming the hospital,” Frank says, and carefully lowers himself down onto the chair that’s next to the window. “You’ll break Jon’s heart, he thinks he’s special.”

“Not _all_ the hospital,” Mikey says, and thinks about the people he’s still trying to avoid, and a bill that keeps going up. “And Jon knows that he’s special, he brings me coffee.”

Frank rests his arm on the windowsill, looking outside to the street and says fondly, “You’re easily bought, Mikeyway.”

It’s a casual comment that catches Mikey off-guard. Glad that Frank’s turned away, Mikey takes a moment to school his expression, hiding how his stomach is churning, his skin prickling with remembered touches.

“I want to go outside, or take a shower.” Frank sounds plaintive and he rests his forehead against the glass.

“Soon.” Mikey circles the low table in the middle of the room and moves to stand next to Frank. “Want me to ask if I can wash your hair later?”

“God yes.” There’s a squeak as Frank turns his head, skin against glass, as he looks up at Mikey. “It feels disgusting.”

Mikey reaches out, touching Frank’s hair. Admittedly, it’s dirty right now, greasy and lank, and Mikey knows Frank must hate how that feels. “I’ll ask as soon as we get back.”

“Have I told you lately how much I love you?” Frank grabs hold of Mikey’s t-shirt and pulls while taking a step back. Sitting, he grins and says, “Get over here.”

Mikey goes easily, dropping to his knees and fitting himself between Frank’s spread legs. It’s a position that could easily be sexual, but right now all Mikey’s doing is clinging to Frank. He holds tight, forehead against Frank’s shoulder, and while in some ways Frank appears fragile, underneath the veneer of illness he’s solid and there.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” Frank says, and he’s got his hands against Mikey’s back, his fingers digging in.

Mikey’s missed Frank too, that part of him that’s separate from this hospital and a battle to get well. Mikey’s missed waking up in their own bed and Frank singing as he makes breakfast, the way he makes no attempt to hide his tears each time they watch sad movies on TV. Mikey’s missed a thousand little things that bind them together, and he tilts up his head and presses his mouth against Frank’s.

As kisses go it’s not one of their best. Frank’s mouth tastes sour and Mikey’s all too aware of the time that they’re taking, as Frank struggles to breathe through his nose. None of that matters, and right now, Mikey couldn’t be happier.

Which lasts for all of a few seconds. Frank’s moves his hand, stroking upwards, and over the dressing on Mikey’s back. Frank stills his hand, then traces the dressing, pulls back and says, “What’s that?”

“I scratched my back,” Mikey says, and shows Frank his palms. “I told you I slipped. Jon put a dressing on it.”

Frank doesn’t look convinced, and tugs at Mikey’s t-shirt, pulling it up so he can see himself. “That has to be a big scratch. Did Jon disinfect it?”

“He did,” Mikey says, hating that he’s lying to Frank. Not that he’s got any choice. “I’m fine. It’s you that I’m worried about.”

“Well don’t,” Frank says, and he lets Mikey’s t-shirt drop and kisses him briefly. “Because I’m fine too, and I’ll be coming home soon.”

“I hope so,” Mikey says, and that’s not a lie, because he does need Frank to come home. The problem is, getting him a home to come back to.

~*~*~*~

Ryan’s on his hands and knees, dry heaving, his eyes streaming. On the floor beside him there’s a handful of ten dollar bills, and he reaches out, grabbing them before they blow away, or end up in the pool of vomit.

“Do you want a hand up?”

At first Ryan doesn’t recognize who’s speaking, then he looks up, and sees Mikey standing at the end of the alley. He’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday, his hair wild and glasses pushed high up his nose. He’s not someone Ryan want to see right now, and Ryan snarls, “What, you’re not going to ask if I’m okay?”

“No point, you’re obviously not.” Mikey takes a few steps closer, and then asks. “Was it... Did a john do that to you?”

In Mikey’s mouth the terminology sounds clumsy, and Ryan’s in no mood to deal with someone so clueless. He starts to struggle to his feet and says, “It’s nothing I wasn’t paid for.”

Mikey shrugs. “Doesn’t mean you don’t need help.”

“Lots of people would disagree.” By now Ryan’s on his knees only and he wipes at his face, surprised when Mikey comes close and holds out his hand. Ryan stares, says, “I’m covered in puke.”

Mikey keeps his hand outstretched. “It’s not going to hurt me, unless you’re some kind of alien hybrid and throwing up acid.”

It’s a kind of conversation Ryan’s had before, but only with Spencer, when they were lying on his bed, comics between them and the sound of Spencer’s family downstairs. Back then it was perfectly normal, right now it’s surreal. When Ryan feels like hell and that it actually is possible that acid is eating its way through his insides.

Finally, when it’s obvious Mikey’s not about to drop his hand, Ryan holds out his own, allowing Mikey to help pull him upright. “Pete’s not here.”

“Oh.” Mikey seems thrown, and he asks, “Will he turn up later?”

Mikey’s hand is cold, and Ryan pulls back his own, his fingers curled to take away the chill. “How am I supposed to know? I’m not his keeper.”

Mikey’s expression is unchanged, but Ryan’s an expert of seeing the little things. A john about to run, a hitch in breath that means to relax into a punch, the fact that underneath the stoicism Mikey’s plainly out of his depth.

It makes Ryan regret his snapped response. “Pete’s Pete. He goes where he wants when he wants.” Which should be enough, but Ryan finds himself saying, “But you can wait with me if you want.”

It’s an offer Ryan shouldn’t make. Physically Mikey is a close match to Ryan, enough it could be an issue with the johns having to choose. Which in turn would make it an issue with Walt, who’d be losing money if they pick Mikey over Ryan.

The previous day Mikey being there was resting on Pete, someone who defies Walt always. Tonight it’s Ryan sticking out his own neck, and that’s a mistake. It’s why he’s regretting the offer as soon as he says it, and would take it back if it wasn’t for the flash of relief as Mikey says, “Thank you.”

Ryan takes a moment to hide his money and make sure he looks the best that he can, and then starts to walk out into view. When he’s back on the street he checks for approaching cars, and seeing none, leans heavily against the wall, allowing himself a moment to relax.

Mikey doesn’t talk. Which is something Ryan appreciates, except for the way that the quiet allows Ryan’s thoughts to crowd close, and he’s missing the filter of nose. It’s why he says, “Why an alien hybrid and not a full alien?”

“If you were a full alien you wouldn’t be doing this,” Mikey says, and takes a position next to Ryan. “You’d be out taking over the world.”

“I could be taking over the world from the bottom up,” Ryan says, tracking a car that starts to slow then speeds past. “No one ever suspects the little man.”

“So you’d be a ninja alien hooker. Awesome.”

“Sex worker,” Ryan automatically corrects, and turns his head, seeing the tail end of a smile. In that brief moment Mikey looks different, younger, and Ryan hates the inevitability that this lifestyle will erode that away.

It makes Ryan want to ask why Mikey’s doing this, but as a question it’s taboo. Despite that, the urge to ask remains and Ryan’s glad when the same car from before drives past again, slows, and then reverses.

“We’re up.” Ryan stands straight, slipping personas and working his hips as he walks. When Mikey doesn’t follow, and seems to be allowing Ryan to approach the car first, Ryan takes a moment to look back. “I know Pete would have told you it’s dog eat dog here, don’t give up a chance to make money.”

“Okay,” Mikey says, and Ryan looks away, his attention fully on the john who’s winding down his car window.

Ryan smiles, says, “Hey handsome, you want a good time.”

The man in the car leers, says, “Yes.”

~~~~~~

That night Pete never turns up. Or Bob, or for a long time, Ray.

It means between johns Ryan spends his time talking to Mikey. Casual conversations that steer clear of real life. They’re also conversations that instantly break off when the johns appear, and Ryan’s relived that tonight business is steady, leading to money for them both.

It’s weighted toward Ryan, who knows and utilizes all the tricks to get johns looking his way, but Mikey gets his share too. Each time he walks away slowly, projecting a calm that barely holds up, and each time Ryan stays close to the mouth of the alley. It’s Ryan’s form of standing guard, and he tries not to listen, looking away when the johns hurry away, and Mikey stumbles past minutes after.

It’s what Ryan’s doing when Ray comes running. Panting for breath as he doubles over, hands on his knees as he manages to say, “It’s Spencer. The clinic....”

Ryan sees the blood on Ray’s t-shirt, how his hands are stained. Dread hits, hard and sudden, and Ryan’s running.

~~~~~~~

“Spencer!” Ryan’s yelling as he runs up the steps to Phoenix House and through the main doors. His feet skidding against the linoleum as he turns the corner to the clinic and keeps running, and is caught and brought to a halt by Bob, who’s standing close to the door.

“Calm down.” Bob’s got his arms around Ryan, holding on as Ryan tries to get free. “Spencer’s in there with Lindsey, and the last thing they need is you charging in.”

Ryan starts to struggle even harder. “I need to get in there.”

“No.” Bob tightens his grip, pulling Ryan so he’s held tight against Bob’s body. “Not until you’ve calmed down.”

Ryan takes a deep breath, knowing he’s going nowhere right at this minute. He says, “Spencer. I need to see him.”

“I know,” Bob says, and he’s still holding on. “And you will as soon as you stop freaking out.”

“I’m not freaking out,” Ryan says, and to prove that he fights to keep still, and resists the urge to punch Bob hard in the face to make him let go. “See. I’m calm.”

“No, what you are is a good actor.” Still, Bob waits a few moments and then loosens his grip. “Tell Spencer I kicked that fucker in the teeth.”

“I will,” Ryan promises, and he steps away from Bob, his heart thumping as he knocks, entering the room before anyone gets the chance to reply.

“Ryan, hi.” Lindsey’s standing next to the examination table, where Spencer’s lying, partially blocked by Jon, who’s sitting on a low stool, hunched over at Spencer’s side.

Ryan walks closer, and sees that Jon’s working on Spencer’s arm, painstakingly stitching up a cut that stretches from wrist to elbow. Already Jon’s closed half of the cut, and he looks up at Ryan, smiles and says, “Hey.”

“What happened?” Ryan stands frozen, not wanting to bump Jon, but also needing to touch Spencer. Compromising, he reaches out and rests his hand against Spencer’s shoulder, a brief touch to show that he’s there.

“A fucking runner,” Spencer says, slurring slightly as he blinks, staring over at Ryan. “I chased him down and he broke a bottle, the bastard went for my face.”

Fury hits hard, and all Ryan wants to do is find the john and take revenge on Spencer’s behalf. Remembering Bob’s message, he says, “Bob said to say he kicked the fucker in the teeth. Tell me he means the bastard that glassed you.”

“When I yelled Bob came running,” Spencer says, his eyes sliding closed. “He pulled him away, and then Ray brought me here.”

His last words barely audible, Spencer’s eyes close fully. Panicked, Ryan looks toward Lindsey, who steps past Jon and slips her arm around Ryan. “Blood loss and painkillers, you know how it goes.”

Ryan does know how it goes, but living through it and it happening to Spencer are two very different things. Ryan feels helpless, his anger draining away and exposing his exhaustion and fear.

“He’s going to be fine,” Lindsey says, and gives Ryan a one-armed squeeze. “Come and sit down, I’ve got soda and Jon’s going to be a while yet.”

“You’re not going to supervise?” Ryan says, reluctant to move, his gaze changing between studying Spencer’s face and watching Jon’s precise stitching. “He could hit an artery or something.”

Lindsey’s not holding on hard enough to hurt, but she is holding on, and steers Ryan to a chair and says, “Jon’s not going to hit an artery, now sit before you fall down. I don’t want to have to patch you up too.”

As soon as Ryan’s sitting Lindsey opens a cupboard, and takes out a can of Pepsi which she opens and hands over. “It’s warm, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Ryan says, and takes a sip, gripping the can with both hands. He’s still watching Spencer and Jon, seeing how Spencer’s unmoving and Jon so intent. It’s reassuring to see, and Ryan tries to focus on the rise of Spencer’s chest, and how Jon’s hair curls at the nape of his neck. But each times he loses that focus Ryan imagines glass slashing through Spencer’s face or thrust into his heart, picking through each tragic outcome if Spencer hadn’t raised his arm in time.

Ryan’s hands shake, soda spilling as the dark thoughts take hold, and he vows whatever it takes, he’s going to ensure Spencer leaves here and goes back to his home -- his real home.

“Have I shown you pictures of my dog?” Lindsey drapes a blanket around Ryan’s shoulders and drags over her own chair, sitting so they’re close. She points at a photograph of a golden dog that’s pinned to a noticeboard that’s next to her computer. “That’s Battle Cat, she lives with my parents.”

“She’s beautiful,” Ryan says, his attention divided between the scent of blood and this too bright, sterile room, and a dog lying in the sun, its fur gleaming and tongue hanging out.

“I miss her but it wouldn’t be fair for her to live here.” Lindsey smiles at the photograph, wistful as she says, “I used to volunteer at the animal shelter, get some kitten and puppy therapy, then things got too busy.”

“The last puppy play I had didn’t involve any animals.” The words slip out before Ryan can think, and he feels himself blushing and looking away.

“So, how did that work out for you?”

Surprised, Ryan looks up. He was expecting the usual insincere sympathy or for Lindsey to ignore his remark, but not this casual question, like she thinks Ryan’s got nothing to be ashamed of.

“The john brought a collar, one of the nice ones from Walmart,” Ryan says, and remembers the feel of carpet against his hands and knees as he was taken for walks, a lead attached to his collar. “I got to eat steak from a bowl before I fucked him, doggy style of course.”

“Of course,” Lindsey says, as if the thought of any other position is unthinkable. “When I first set up Phoenix House I imagined murals painted on the walls and a cat sleeping on the front step. Then I found out animals would break hygiene rules for the clinic.”

“At least you got the murals,” Ryan says. “And cats aren’t as good as dogs anyway.”

“Cats are awesome.” Jon stops working on Spencer and looks back toward Ryan and Lindsey. “This place should have a cat, hundreds of cats.”

“If you want to deal with the paperwork and make the clinic cat-proof, be my guest.” Lindsey turns to Ryan and says, mock serious, “Jon’s in training to be a crazy cat lady. He works, volunteers here and then goes home to his cats. I’ve told him he’s becoming a cliché but he never listens.”

Jon goes back to his stitching. “Because I’m embracing the cliché, that and the sex-pot nurse. Both work.”

“You know, one day I’m going to call you on that,” Lindsey says, laughing as she adds. “The whole thing, nurses cap, short skirt and stockings.”

“Make sure they’re the right size,” Jon says, and the atmosphere in the room is easy, this joke apparently one that’s long running. Ryan starts to relax, sure that what Lindsey’s saying isn’t meant to belittle.

“That cut still coming together okay?” Lindsey asks, her tone changing to sound more professional as she stands, touching Ryan’s shoulder as she walks past and goes to check on Jon and Spencer. “Nice stitching, you’ve kept the edges together perfectly.”

“Thanks.” Jon sounds pleased, but after that he falls silent. The relaxed feel of before still remaining, but even quieter now, as Lindsey starts gathering supplies, leaving Jon to finish alone.

When she’s got a small pile of dressings, bandages and sample packs of antibiotics, Lindsey sits back down next to Ryan. “I know you’ve heard this before, but indulge me.”

Ryan’s used to this too, except usually it’s him lying down and listening as Lindsey explains wound care to Spencer. Ryan says, “Go for it.”

Lindsey points at the stack of dressings. “Keep the wound covered with those. Normally I’d say you could leave them off during the day but there’s too much risk of infection, especially at night. He needs to take all of the antibiotics, one tablet four times a day, even if that means hiding one to take when he’s out. If the wound becomes red or smelly, or if there’s any pus or Spencer seems unwell, bring him back in.”

“I’ll make sure he does,” Ryan says, and even if he’s got a tendency to forget his own antibiotics, that’s not going to happen with Spencer. “Promise.”

Lindsey leans back in her chair, her own tiredness showing as she says, “If I could I’d keep him here overnight. But we’re full up, even the box room in the residential unit.”

“It’s okay, we’ll manage.” Truthfully Ryan’s glad that there’s no excuse to stay over. Getting Spencer home means Ryan can put him to bed and make sure that he’s safe. Unlike here, where too many things are out of his control.

“I know you will,” Lindsey says.” But you’re not walking home. I’ll pay for a cab.”

“No you won’t,” Jon says, his hands stilling as he looks over his shoulder. “I’ll drive them home. I don’t mind.”

It sounds like a good solution, but Lindsey still says, “That okay with you, Ryan?”

Ryan considers Jon, and then says, “That’s fine.”

~*~*~*~

While waking up in a chair has become usual by now, that doesn’t mean it gets any easier.

His whole body aching, Mikey opens his eyes, and all he can see is the blue blur of the bed cover. Groaning, he keeps his upper body still, the bed rails digging into his chest as he gropes for his glasses.

“Here.”

The glasses are pressed against Mikey’s hand, and he takes them, and says to Frank, “Thanks.”

Frank doesn’t reply, or touch Mikey, or do anything at all. Which is something that feels wrong, and Mikey rubs at his eyes then puts on his glasses before pushing himself upright.

“When were you going to tell me?” Frank’s sitting in bed, his legs pulled up and so still that immediately Mikey feels himself tense.

His head thumping and mouth dry, Mikey needs to fully wake up, he needs coffee, and knows he could easily leave the room and go get it. He doesn’t. Instead Mikey says, “Tell you what?”

“That you got fired.” Frank’s still not moving, and it’s that stillness that’s showing his anger so clearly. Mikey’s used to a fury expressed in curses and action, and knows how to deal with that. This is something else entirely, and Mikey feels lost as he tries to explain.

“I didn’t want you to worry. You were so sick, and weren’t even awake at first.”

“I get that part,” Frank says, and outside there’s the sound of talking, the rattle of a trolley as it’s pushed past. “What I don’t get is why you didn’t tell me later, or why you pretended to go to work.”

“I was sure I’d get something else, I have in the past.” Frank still isn’t moving, and it makes Mikey feel sick, as he’s forced to face up to the result of his deception. Which is what this is, because no matter what’s happened between them, what Frank and Mikey have kept sacred is trust. “I was going to tell you.”

“When?” Frank says, icy cold. “When I got discharged, and found someone new living in our apartment?”

Glad that he’s sitting, Mikey says quietly, “I didn’t want you to know.”

“Well I do.” Finally Frank moves, causing his IV to sway as he jerks up his hand. “They told me this could come out today. I wanted to celebrate so called the diner to tell you to bring stuff for breakfast. And they told me you hadn’t worked there for weeks. So then I called the super at our building, and he said he couldn’t go see if you were home because it wasn’t our home any-more.”

“Frank, I....”

Frank cuts Mikey off, his cool of before disappearing. “Our fucking _home_ Mikey. And it’s not even that that’s pissing me off. It’s that you didn’t tell me, that you’ve been walking out of here every day and not saying a fucking word.”

Mikey fumbles for words to explain how desperate he’s been feeling, that even though Frank’s right, Mikey had reasons for doing what he did. He doesn’t get the chance, Frank’s anger building even further.

“I waited for you last night. Sat here and watched some shitty movie while I waited for you to come back and tell me where you’d been. Then I fell asleep, and when I woke up you were already back and sleeping.”

Mikey isn’t sure what he should be saying. He wants to say sorry, but he isn’t even sure what for. Just, he hates seeing Frank so angry, knowing he’s the cause. About to apologize, Mikey closes his mouth when Frank draws in a breath and keeps going.

“And I sat and watched you sleep, because that’s how pathetic I am. Thinking about that shit-hole of an apartment we fixed up and how we worked so fucking hard to keep it going, and I thought you had to have a good explanation. You wouldn’t lie for no reason, then I saw those.”

Frank leans forward and takes hold of Mikey’s t-shirt, pulling it up at one side to expose a cluster of small bruises that are visible above the waist band of his pants. They’re obviously made by fingers, some of the bruises dark while others have started to fade just a little. Evidence of multiple hands over two nights and Mikey feels cold, shivering as he realizes what Frank thinks that he’s seeing.

Frank lies back, his anger suddenly cut off. “I could have got past you lying about the other shit, but not this.”

“No.” Mikey’s sitting at the edge of his chair, needing to get close, and for Frank to understand, because Mikey wouldn’t do that. Even the thought makes him feel ill. “I haven’t been cheating.”

“So what, you’ve been grappling with an octopus or are you going to tell me you fell again?” Frank’s staring past Mikey, as if he can’t bear to look at him directly. “I’m not stupid, I know what those mean.”

Mikey grips the bed rail, needing the support. “It’s not what you think.”

“So you haven’t been fucking someone else while I’ve been stuck in here,” Frank says, and the way he says it, with no emotion at all, is more painful than any anger.

“No.” Mikey drops his head onto his arm. It feels like everything is collapsing at once and he’s telling yet more lies when all Frank’s said was the truth. Guilt striking hard, Mikey changes his answer and says, “Yes.”

“Yes.” Frank sounds stunned, and there’s a long pause before he says, “So what, you were so desperate for a fuck you couldn’t wait for me to get well, or is it you didn’t want damaged goods?”

“It wasn’t like that.” Mikey keeps his head down, his breath wet against his arm as he fights for control. “I had nowhere to go, and no money, and the bill for here kept going up. I didn’t know what to do.”

“So you decided to revisit old times and fuck for distractions.”

It’s a comment designed to hurt, and right now Mikey’s never felt so exposed, Frank’s remark striking harder than any john’s. It’s a remark that proves that Mikey’s fucked up and already lost Frank completely, a last straw as Mikey looks up, stands and says, “No, I was fucking for money.”

“What?” Frank’s staring at Mikey. “What do you mean fucking for money?”

“I had to, Frank, I had no choice.”

"No choice about what? Fuck you, Mikey, explain what you mean or get out."

Mikey’s too tired to keep trying to explain. He already knows Frank’s angry and has lost all trust, Mikey doesn’t want to see his disgust too. It’s why Mikey says simply, “I mean I whored myself out to pay your hospital bills.”

Then Mikey turns and walks away.

~*~*~*~

“You’ve got a choice,” Ryan says, and holds up two packets of noodles. “Chicken or chicken?”

Spencer puts down his book, resting it on his lap as he pretends to consider. “I’m thinking... chicken.”

“Good choice.” Ryan puts down both packets on the table, checking the heat of the kettle by touching the side.

“You know it goes off when it boils,” Spencer says, and picks up his book, holding it in one hand. “If you’re trying to make me worry about burns it’s not going to work. You’re still making dinner.”

Ryan rummages through their kitchen supplies, finding two plastic bowls, and gives Spencer a sideways look. “I am making it, and if the water boils it spoils the taste of the noodles, you know that.”

Spencer doesn’t look convinced, he never does, no matter how often Ryan tells him the perfect way to make noodles. “I know your weird noodle idiosyncrasies make no sense.”

“The weird is redundant.” Ryan rips open a packet with his teeth, and drops the block of noodles into a bowl. When he’s sure that they’re central, he looks over at Spencer. “The idiosyncrasy thing, the peculiar is already stated.”

“And some,” Spencer stresses, and at a knock at the door, swings himself around and stands. “I’ll get that, it might be the noodle police.”

“And you say I make no sense.” Ryan opens the second packet, gripping the wrapper with his teeth when Spencer opens the door, revealing Jon standing outside.

“I’ve been buying pizza.” To demonstrate Jon holds up a large pizza box, a white plastic bag swinging from where it’s looped over his wrist. “And wondered if you wanted to share?”

Instantly, Ryan’s suspicious. He doesn’t know where Jon lives, but he suspects it’s not close by. He also knows the hospital where he works is on the other side of the city. Which is why it makes no sense that Jon’s here now.

Still, Spencer’s inviting Jon in, giving the bed a cursory sweep with his hand to straighten the covers. “Sit down, unless you want to pull up some floor.”

Jon sits, pizza on his knee, and for a moment there’s an awkward silence, then Ryan swears, making a dive for the kettle when he sees that it’s boiling.

“Ryan has noodle issues,” Spencer explains with a grin. He plucks the packet from between Ryan’s teeth and places it on top of the opened block. “They’ll keep for tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Jon says, seemingly accepting the answer at face value. “How’s your arm?”

“Still attached.” While Jon’s no Lindsey, who can receive the answers she wants at one pointed look, he does have the non-verbal prompt down. Spencer sighs, looking at Jon. “It hurts, but I’ve been taking my antibiotics and painkillers.”

“He has,” Ryan agrees, gathering two plates and the random saucer that’s been in the room since the day they moved in. “I woke him up to make sure.”

Jon puts the bag on the floor and opens the pizza box. “No feeling light-headed or faint?”

Before Spencer gets the chance to open his mouth, Ryan replies. “He got a bit wobbly this morning. I made him go back to bed with a cup of sweet tea.”

Spencer sits on the bed, careful not to jostle Jon. “He broke out an emergency teabag, it was impressive.”

“Ryan’s got teabag issues, too?” Jon says, and starts to pull the pizza apart.

Ryan shakes his head. “It’s just it’s usually me drinking them.”

It’s all Ryan says, and Jon lets the comment go, holding out his hand for a plate. Taking it, he slides on a slice and hands it over to Spencer. “I got pepperoni, I figured it was a safe choice.”

That Jon considered choices at all is another indication that coming here wasn’t an impulsive idea. Tempted to ask why, Ryan pushes that aside, reminding himself that Jon’s done nothing to warrant thinking that he wants to hurt or use them in any way. Holding onto that thought, Ryan sits on the floor and watches as, for the first time in a while, Spencer takes a first bite of food that’s both hot and not previously dehydrated.

Jon continues dividing the pizza, handing a slice to Ryan, and then, after a brief hesitation, putting his own onto the saucer.

Spencer swallows, says, “You could have just eaten out of the box.”

Jon grins, “My mom would never forgive me.”

“Yeah, I hear you,” Spencer says, and as always, Ryan can tell when he’s thinking of Ginger. It’s something that doesn’t happen so often now, but Spencer’s obvious sadness is enough that Ryan uses it to strengthen his resolve that Spencer has to go home, even if that means leaving Ryan behind.

Not that it’s something Ryan’s about to bring up now. That conversation isn’t one to have in front of guests, even if Jon does know what they do.

“Have you decided what class to take yet?” Jon’s holding his half eaten slice of pizza, a circle of pepperoni sliding off and onto the saucer. At Spencer’s questioning look he adds, “Brendon told me you’d been talking.”

“Brendon needs to learn to shut the hell up,” Ryan says, his opinion of Brendon sinking again.

Lindsey’s given him control of the program, he’s excited about people signing up,” Jon says, and it should be him making excuses, but from Jon, it doesn’t sound like that at all. Jon’s mouth quirks up into a smile as he adds, “It’s good he’s not volunteering full time yet or he’d be lobbying for school status.”

Ryan tries to reconcile the Brendon’s he knows in his head. The one who goes to school and is using Phoenix House for his own needs, and the one Ryan keeps actually seeing, who’s friendly and enthusiastic, working hard for Lindsey even if he does have a big mouth. “He’s going to volunteer full time?”

“He’s planning on taking a gap year, says he can learn more working than he can at school,” Jon says. “You should ask him about his plans one day. I think you’d get along.”

As pointed remarks go it’s gentle, but enough that Ryan has a flash of guilt that his annoyance with Brendon has been so apparent. Not that he’s been making any effort to hide what he thinks. Eventually, Ryan says, “I will.”

“Good.” Jon looks at his watch, the hastily eats the remainder of his slice. “I need to get going. I’ll be late for my shift.”

“You’ve only been here for a few minutes,” Spencer points out. “You haven’t even touched most of the pizza.”

“My own fault for picking a place with a long line,” Jon says, and hands the pizza box over to Ryan. “There’s sodas in the bag.”

Box on his lap, Ryan says, “You could take those.”

“I could,” Jon says in reply, and heads for the door. Once there he hesitates a moment, as if he’s about to say more. Then waves, and simply says, “Bye.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Late afternoon and Mikey’s still angry with Frank.

It’s not a feeling he’s used to, or likes, but each time Mikey thinks about what Frank said the anger builds once again.

It’s not even that Frank was so angry himself. Mikey gets that, and understands Frank’s initial reaction to strike out. It’s after that’s the problem, when he didn’t give Mikey a chance to explain, and worst, seriously believed that Mikey would actually cheat.

Even the thought is painful, and along with his own feelings of guilt, Mikey’s dealing with Frank’s lack of trust. Through everything it’s something they’ve held on to. That no matter how shitty things got, they’d still have each other. Until they didn’t, and something Mikey relied on has been exposed as a lie.

No job, no money, no home, and now no Frank. Mikey’s left facing a future that’s nothing but bleak. He hasn’t even got the money he earned last night, that’s hidden in Frank’s locker, a token payment against the escalating medical bills.

Not that the hospital knows that, or even Frank himself, who was fast asleep when Mikey crept back.

The lack of money is the most immediate problem and Mikey keeps thinking through his choices. Which right now seem to amount to just one. That Mikey stays on the street and continues selling his body.

It’s not what Mikey wants, but he can’t think of any other option and increasingly he’s realizing what he wants counts for nothing. The only thing that does count is survival, and Mikey’s not about to give up.

Decision made, Mikey changes direction. He’s got a few hours before the time he’s been heading to Fifth, but he can get there early and wait. All Mikey needs is a drink from a public bathroom, maybe a quiet place to sit and rest for a while.

Which is good, because right now it’s all that he’s got.

~~~~

“I was considering moving away, but then thought, fuck it. I like it here.” Ray looks past Mikey, checking the road for approaching cars, then says. “Plus, my friends are here too. I don’t want to leave them behind.”

Ray’s story is a hard one to hear, especially the way that he tells it, when he calmly describes a spiralling situation that left him out of control. While Mikey knows about pimps, the one Ray talks about seems like one of the worst, violent, controlling, and always ruthless. Trying to clarify details, Mikey says, “So this Walt, he lent you money and he’s owned you ever since?”

“Basically,” Ray says, and unlike before, right now his expression is strained. “I shouldn’t even be telling you but I don’t want you to make my mistake.”

Until tonight Mikey hadn’t even met Ray, but instinctively, he feels like someone Mikey should listen to, and Mikey finds himself saying, “I’ll be careful.”

“Good.” Ray seems relieved, and rubs at the back of his neck. “Another thing, you can’t tell anyone what I’ve just told you.”

“Yeah. That’s not a problem,” Mikey says, all too aware that the amount of people he could talk to have been cut down to zero.

Ray’s eyebrows are furrowed as he studies Mikey. “I’m not going to ask why you’re here, but if you ever want to talk...”

The offer is unexpected, and feels like the first kindness Mikey’s experienced all day. It’s also an offer Mikey starts to consider, when there’s the sound of an engine, and from down the street, Ryan saying, “Incoming.”

Within seconds things change. A last smile at Mikey and Ray takes his position, stalking the curbside and joining the others in displaying their bodies. It’s something that still catches Mikey by surprise, how people can change so easily, playing up their assets as the johns slow and appraise each person.

It’s also something that makes Mikey feel awkward as he tries to mimic the way Ryan walks or how Bob maintains his pose, looking strong and silent. Mostly, Mikey ends up alternating between both, and thinks he ends up looking stupid. But sometimes it seems, that’s exactly what the johns want.

Like this one right now, who’s slowed down to a crawl, his window open as he points at Mikey and says, “You, come here.”

His head held high, Mikey walks forward, and then leans into the car.

“How old are you?” Before Mikey gets the chance to reply, the john scowls and says, “No matter, you’ll do. How much to fuck you?”

Already Mikey’s used to such blunt questions, but what always catches him are the johns who’re openly scornful, their self loathing directed outwards. More than anything Mikey wants to back away from this car, but he hasn’t earned enough money. Not even enough for one room for the night never mind the amount that he needs.

“Eighty,” Mikey says, and then, “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Get in.”

It’s the first time Mikey’s been told to get into a john’s car. He tries to think if Pete mentioned a situation like this, but Mikey’s brain has gone blank, nerves taking hold as he tries to think what to do.

Ray walks past, says under his breath. “Leave your seatbelt off, pay attention to where you’re going, if you go to a hotel don’t go into a room first in case he’s got company.”

It’s all Ray gets the chance to say. Impatient, the john says, “Get in or lose the chance.”

Mikey does.

They go to a hotel, some dive where Mikey’s told to stay outside while the john goes for a room. When he comes back the john’s gripping a key, the tag sticking out of his clenched fist. Pushing past Mikey he says, “Hurry up already, I’ve only got the room for an hour.”

In a way that’s a relief, Mikey’s sure he can deal with anything for only an hour. The john hurrying ahead, Mikey increases his pace to catch up, and then waits as he unlocks the door to room thirty-two, and pushes his way inside. When Mikey follows, the john shuts the door and demands, “Clothes off and get on the bed.”

There’s no other conversation or attempt at seduction. Which is good, because Mikey’s come to hate the ones who think what they’re doing is wanted, but at the same time, being in a hotel room hits hard. It feels more like Mikey actually is cheating, when he’s taking off his clothes and laying them on a chair, and not on his knees in a dirty and dark alley.

“You’re skinny, just how I like them.” Finally the john is taking notice, hand on his crotch as he watches Mikey undress. When Mikey’s fully naked, and resisting the urge to cover himself up, the john says, “Get on the bed, on your back, and leave your glasses on.”

Mikey takes a step back, his legs hitting the bed. The feel of _wrong_ is still strong, both being in this room and the john himself, who’s ringing warning bells with the way he staring at Mikey, and how he’s making no attempt to take off his own clothes.

Suddenly, the john runs forward, his hand pulled back as he slaps Mikey’s face, hard. “I said, get on the bed.”

Mikey looks toward the door, but he’s got nowhere to run, and no one to run to. He drags the back of his hand under his nose, wiping away blood, says as he sits, “You’re paying extra for that.”

~~~~~~

The last two nights Mikey’s been one of the first to leave. Tonight he’s lingering.

While he’s got the money to pay for a hotel somewhere, the energy needed in walking to find one, and then dealing with checking in, feels too much. It doesn’t help that Mikey’s whole body is hurting, and he brings his hand to his face, fingers against his cheek which feels hot under his touch.

The only other person left is Ryan, who emerges out of the alley still fastening his pants. “You should go, no one else will be coming this late.”

Summoning the effort, Mikey pushes away from the wall, relieved at the feel of money shoved into his shoe. It means a safe place for tonight, maybe some food and yet more money to put toward Frank’s medical bills. He starts walking, stumbling a little as he steps onto the road.

Already a little distance ahead, Ryan looks back, and then keeps walking, for almost the length of the street. Then, he slows and turns toward Mikey, waiting, and says, “I’m meeting a friend at Denny’s, if you want you can come.”

The sensible thing would be to say no and go find a place to stay for the night. But that means Mikey being alone with his thoughts, and that’s something he’s willing to put off. He says, “Thanks.”

The walk to Denny’s doesn’t take long, even with Mikey’s slow pace and Ryan having to go talk to someone in a parked up, dark car. When he comes back Ryan’s body language is tense, and despite his curiosity, Mikey doesn’t ask any questions.

A few minutes later and they turn a corner, and the Denny’s is right there, set back on the road. Ryan points to a man who’s sitting on one of the picnic benches outside of the lobby. “That’s Spencer.”

They cross the parking lot, and as they get close, Ryan smiles. It’s not the smile that Mikey’s used to seeing, the one that’s too brittle and obviously fake. This one is wide and genuine, Ryan’s eyes crinkling as Spencer stands and holds up a takeout cup, whipped cream visible over the top.

“Penny’s working?” Ryan says, and takes the cup, getting whipped cream on his nose when he drinks.

“She swapped shifts.” Spencer waits, seemingly for some kind of introduction, then says, “As Ryan’s obviously forgotten his manners again. I’m Spencer.”

“I already told him that,” Ryan says, keeping hold of the drink with both hands. “But if it makes you happy. Mikey, this is Spencer. Spencer, this is Mikey.”

“Hi,” Spencer says, and then he looks between Mikey and Ryan. “This is Pete’s park guy?”

There’s an unspoken conversation going on between Ryan and Spencer. Mikey can see the signs, enough to recognize the amusement that’s directed at Ryan. But beyond that he’s got nothing, and hates the feeling that he’s the butt of some joke. Regretting agreeing to come, Mikey says, “I should get going.”

Ryan shakes his head. “No, don’t. Spencer’s being an ass. Have some hot chocolate.”

At first Mikey doesn’t take the offered cup. Then Spencer says, “I’d take it, he won’t offer again.”

Mikey takes the cup and drinks, and is immediately hit with a sugar rush as he swallows the sickly sweet liquid.

“We take advantage of the free sugars,” Spencer says, taking the cup that Mikey holds out. “We got it to fifteen packets once, but that was one too many.”

To Mikey that would be fifteen too many, and he looks through the windows, considering spending some of his money on a plain coffee. But first he needs to ask about some place to stay, before Ryan and Spencer head off on their own. “Are there any hotels close by? Cheap ones.”

“There’s The Sunshine Inn,” Spencer says, and instantly Mikey’s remembering the feel of a itching bed cover against his back, tasting blood in his mouth and desperate to zone out, sweat and saliva coating his body as the john pinned him down.

Mikey shakes his head. “No. Not there.”

“I wouldn’t let a dog stay there,” Ryan says, and again he’s sharing a look with Spencer. It’s one that lasts so long that Mikey’s considering just walking away and finding his own place to stay. And if he can’t, well, it won’t be the first time he’ stayed awake all night.

“You can stay with us for the night.”

Ryan’s offer is unexpected. Mikey doesn’t even know him that well, and Spencer not at all. More than that, they don’t even know why Mikey needs a place to stay, and he says, “You don’t even know me.”

Spencer shrugs, “You need a place to sleep, and if you plan to murder us in our sleep there’s an iron bar with your name on.”

Mikey could point out the flaws in that plan, but what he says is, ”It’s Ryan that spits the acid.”

Ryan grins, the first one that’s been directed at Mikey as he says, “You know it.”

~*~*~*~

Ryan and Spencer’s room smells like pizza.

By the time Ryan shuts and locks the door, Spencer’s already sharing out leftovers, putting cold slices of pizza on the still greasy plates. He hands one over to Mikey, says, “Sit, eat,” before doing the same himself.

Taking his own plate, Ryan sits between Mikey and Spencer, being careful not to hit the place with the exposed spring at the side. This late Ryan’s ready for sleep, but he’s needs to eat, a shared hot chocolate doing nothing to take the edge off his hunger.

“I got a oswo tonight,” Spencer says, grinning as he shuffles back until his legs are outstretched and he can rest against the wall. “Twenty and I didn’t even touch him.”

Seeing Mikey’s frown, Ryan explains, “One second wonder, the johns that blow as soon as you touch them.”

Mikey takes a bite of his pizza, chews then swallows, says, “And they still pay?”

“It’s not our fault if it happens,” Ryan says. “They still get to come.”

Spencer’s eyes are closing, and he yawns, showing off the chewed up remains of his pizza crust. “Anything interesting happen tonight?”

Ryan thinks back over his night, picking over the johns for any that would interest Spencer. “Walt’s still sending people over, so there was a couple of self-hating assholes. But I think Mikey got one of them.”

It’s something Ryan’s sure of, practice allowing him to recognize the johns that get off on physical intimidation. He can also recognize the look of someone who’s in over their head, and that’s one reason Mikey’s here right now.

It’s Ryan’s version of passing it on. Where he’s still not exactly sure why Pete found Mikey so interesting, but has talked to him enough that Ryan wants to know more. It’s why Ryan’s offered Mikey a place to stay now, even if it does mean putting up with Spencer’s amusement.

Ryan swallows his pizza and then stands, and starts to take off his clothes. Pulling off his t-shirt, he says, “You can sleep next to the wall, Spencer’s got a bladder the size of a pea and I like the middle.”

“You want me to sleep in your bed?” Mikey sounds surprised, and looks behind him, as if checking out the size of the bed.

Ryan folds his t-shirt, putting it on the chair. “You can sleep on the floor if you want, if you don’t mind being cold and sharing with stray mice.”

Mikey still seems undecided, which Ryan doesn’t get. Sure, it’ll be a tight fit, but sleeping under blankets on an actual bed has to be better than the floor.

Almost fully asleep now, Spencer lists slightly to the side as he suggests, “If you don’t like sharing you could sleep at the bottom.”

“I share a bed all the time, it’s not that.” Mikey fall silent, the remains of his pizza left untouched on his plate. Then suddenly he says, “It doesn’t feel right, I mean, you guys. I’d be like a third wheel.”

It takes Ryan a while to catch on. When he does his eyes widen and he looks past Mikey to Spencer, who’s grinning as he mimics making a check in the air. “I’m not with Spencer. That’s just... No.”

To Ryan the idea feels wrong. He loves Spencer deeply, lives with him and has even had sex with him before when asked, but there’s no actual sexual attraction. Spencer’s his best friend, nothing more. Though that doesn’t seem to stop other people thinking so.

Spencer flops down onto his back, wincing a little as he starts to unfasten his belt. “We grew up together. Being in a relationship with Ryan is the last thing I want.”

“Lies. You know you secretly want me.” Ryan wiggles out of his pants, putting them on the pile of clothes and then grabs the packet of antibiotics. Popping one out, he puts one knee on the side of the bed, leans over and holds the tablet over Spencer’s mouth and says, “Open.”

“Yeah, you don’t look like you’re together at all,” Mikey says, watching as Ryan efficiently unfastens and takes off Spencer’s shoes and pants. “I don’t mind taking the floor, I’ve slept in worse places.”

Ryan puts Spencer’s clothes on the pile and then gathers the dirty plates. Stacking them on the table, he rechecks the door and goes into the bathroom. Leaving the curtain that covers the doorway open, he pees as he talks. “If you sleep on the floor I’ll be awake all night worrying about you freezing.”

Ryan finishes, shakes off and washes his hands in cold water. When he goes back into the other room, Mikey’s still in the same place, and Ryan admits, “Okay, I’m lying. I’ll be asleep as soon as I lie down, but I can’t see the point of you taking the floor. There’s not enough comfort around, take what you can.”

“Okay,” Mikey says finally, and he toes off his shoes, kicking them so they’re under the bed. Leaving the rest of his clothes on, he waits as Ryan pokes at Spencer until he wakes up enough to roll to the side of the bed, allowing Mikey to take his place.

Finally, after he’s turned off the light, Ryan gets to lie down. It is a tight fit, enough that he keeps his arm over Spencer to make sure he doesn’t roll off. But it also means that Ryan’s warm, blanketed on all sides, feeling secure, but despite that, he can’t seem to slip into sleep.

And it seems, neither can Mikey. Ryan can tell he’s awake, lying still but staring into the darkness for what feels like a long time.

“When I was young my brother used to tell me stories,” Mikey says suddenly, his words low and soft. “I don’t think he realized monsters and epic battles wouldn’t actually help me to sleep.”

Despite his surprise that Mikey’s sharing personal details, even ones that are so vague, Ryan makes an encouraging noise, hoping Mikey gets he should keep talking.

It seems that he does, and Mikey laughs as he speaks. “He used to tell me about a mutant shark that lived on the shore, how it would eat the swimmers and visit bedrooms at night, tapping on the glass, so when you looked out of your window all you saw was teeth and half digested bodies. I never asked him how a shark would get to Belleville.”

Normally, Ryan wouldn’t ask personal questions, but right now, in this cocoon of warmth and shadows, it seems okay to do so. Remembering how Spencer used to enjoy scaring his sisters, Ryan asks, “Is he older than you?”

“Yeah. He’s awesome.” While Mikey’s face remains in darkness, the tone of his voice tells everything, his affection obvious. “At least he was.”

The change is abrupt, and it’s one Ryan recognizes from others stories he’s heard, the indicator of a relationship gone wrong. “He started hitting you? Or other stuff?”

“Oh god, no.” Mikey sounds shocked, like his brother hitting him is unthinkable. “Our grandmother died and our parents relocated and Gerard started using. Drink, drugs, the lot. He forgot I existed until I had to clean him up, making sure he didn’t OD or choke on his own puke.”

Ryan’s sure of where this is going, a story with different people and elements, but one he can easily relate to. “So you left.”

“Not just me, Frank too,” Mikey says. “I told him to stay but he wouldn’t. He just kept saying he was my boyfriend and that meant we stuck together. And we did, until now.”

If it wouldn’t break the moment Ryan would laugh, not with amusement, but the realization that Pete’s managed to find two people with such similar stories. Except, it seems, unlike Ryan, Mikey’s alone now. “Frank went back?”

“I don’t know,” Mikey says, his voice small and uncertain. “He was in the hospital but he told me to get out, he thought I was cheating, so I told him what I’d been doing.”

Ryan tries to imagine that conversation, and can’t think of a way it would ever end well. “I take it he didn’t react well.”

“I don’t know, I left before he replied,” Mikey says, and then, more frantic, “I needed to get the money somehow. He has to understand that”

Truthfully, Ryan doubts it, but all he says is, “I hope so.”

~~~~~~

“Mikey’s gone.”

It’s the first thing Ryan hears when he wakes. Groaning, he keeps his face pushed into his pillow and tries to go back to sleep. Something that’s impossible and slowly, Ryan rolls on his side and says, “What?”

“I said Mikey’s gone.” Despite still being dressed in only his t-shirt and boxers, Spencer seems to be fully awake, and takes malicious glee in opening the curtains and letting sunlight flood into the room.

Ryan squeezes shut his eyes, says, “I hate you.”

“I know.” Spencer sits on the bed, his legs under the covers and redeeming himself when he holds a mug of instant coffee close to Ryan’s nose. “He left a note saying thanks.”

“Do we even have a pen?” Ryan asks, thinking about the contents of their room as he sits and arranges the pillow at the small of his back. “Was it written in blood? Because that would be weird.”

“Like you’re one to talk.” Spencer takes a drink of coffee and then hands the mug to Ryan. “He wrote on the pizza box with leftover sauce.”

Ryan stills, the mug held close to his mouth, says, “And with that, the weird label is passed back to Mikey.”

“It does explain why Pete was so interested, what with the him being attracted to weirdos, thing,” Spencer says, timing his remark so Ryan can’t hit out while he’s drinking. Then, his smile fading he says, “Think he’s gone home?”

“I don’t think so,” Ryan says, and hopes more than anything that he’s wrong -- but he’s sure that he’s not. Mikey’s got the look of someone who can only go down, spiraling fast and brutal. What he needs is someone on the outside to hold out a hand and say, stop, and right now there seems to be no one.

“We need to take him to Lindsey’s,” Spencer says, moving the blankets so they’re covering more of Ryan. “She can put him on the list for a room.”

Ryan turns to the side so he can look directly at Spencer. “You don’t even know him.”

“I know you,” Spencer says, “And even if you’re a bed-hogging weirdo, I trust your judgment.”

“Even if I hardly know him myself?”

“Even then,” Spencer says, and then grins, wide and bright. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop laughing at you inviting your nemesis to stay.”

Ryan frowns. “He’s not my nemesis, he’s....”

“Pete’s new pet, which is driving you insane,” Spencer cuts in, laughing as Ryan’s frown deepens. “Admit it, you were jealous.”

“If it wouldn’t spill my coffee I’d be punching you in the face right now,” Ryan says, in what he hopes is a suitably threatening way. Not that Spencer seems to see it that way, laughing even harder until Ryan gives up and goes back to drinking.

For a while they sit in companionable silence. Ryan cradling his coffee and he thinks about Mikey and how he seems so alone, and Spencer who’s so willing to help a stranger on Ryan’s say-so. It’s a combination that makes him say, “You need to go home.”

“Don’t.” Spencer sounds tired, the light-hearted atmosphere gone in an instant. “How many times do I need to tell you I’m not going?”

“Until you see how stupid it is that you stay,” Ryan says, and he doesn’t want to have this conversation, repeating an argument that never ends in the way that he wants. He’s going to have it any way, hanging onto that hope that one day Spencer will finally see sense. “You don’t owe Walt money, he hasn’t got any hold on you.”

“I pay him a cut of my earnings,” Spencer says. He sounds as tired as Ryan as he repeats his usual rebuttal, the one they both know by heart. “He owns me.”

“It’s not the same, Spencer.” That’s something Ryan knows for sure, that even if Spencer does have to pay that’s for Walt’s laughable idea of protection and to be able to work Walt’s prime areas without hassle. “You could walk away and he wouldn’t stop you.”

“I know,” Spencer says, and this is expected too. The way that he’ll end with, “But I’m not going to.”

That doesn’t mean Ryan’s about to give up.

~*~*~*~

Approaching the hospital, Mikey tells himself that leaving before Ryan and Spencer woke was the right thing to do. No matter how tempting, there was no point in him staying, when the reality is, Mikey’s alone.

It’s why he left so early, determined to find a place to stay, some dive he can use as a base as he saves to pay the hospital bill, and also look for a real job. It’s what Mikey had planned to do now, heading toward the outskirts of the city where the rates should be cheaper, but somehow he’s found himself drawn here.

It’s like Mikey’s torturing himself, knowing Frank is so close while also knowing he won’t get to see him. Not that Mikey wants to, not after what Frank said. At least mostly. Underneath the lingering anger Mikey misses him so much that it physically hurts.

It’s yet another loss and all Mikey wants is a friendly word. To know that out there someone still loves him, which is something that makes Mikey feel pathetic. Like he’s craving something he shouldn’t need, because Mikey’s strong, he always has been.

That doesn’t stop him wanting Frank, and also his brother.

It’s been months since he’s talked to Gerard, much longer since Gerard did anything that could be seen as taking care of Mikey. And Mikey’s worked hard not to care, until now, when he’s tired and aching and the world seems to have turned against him.

Taking stumbling steps back, Mikey sits on a bench, his head in his hands and breathing in the scent of pizza sauce. He knows he needs to get moving, but he can’t deal with more rejection just yet. And that’s something that will inevitably happen when Mikey looks so bad, his clothes dirty and hair tangled, his hands shaking unless he keeps them clenched tight.

Right now Mikey’s a mess, and Gerard can’t fix that -- _he can’t_ \-- but all Mikey wants, all he _needs_ is to hear his voice. Just one word as a reminder that Gerard is out there.

It’s an internal battle that Mikey’s got no hope of winning. All his defenses are down and every reason he left in the first place is blurred as he stands, and heads for the nearest public phone.

Mikey seems to get there in seconds, numb to the world around him as he grips the receiver and tries to remember the code for a collect call. It’s something he should know after countless nights of losing his phone and needing to call home, but right now the numbers won’t stick.

It’s desperation that keeps Mikey trying, his head pounding, until finally, he’s talking to an operator, who puts his call through.

Finally, Mikey’s listening to Gerard.

“Hello?”

Mikey wants to reply, but the words are stuck in his throat. His breathing ragged, Mikey closes his eyes and takes in the small details. The soft sounds Gerard makes as he swallows, a click that has to be him tapping the phone with his fingers.

“Hello?” Gerard repeats, and then he says in a rush, “Mikey? Mikey, is that you?”

Mikey wants to say, _Yes. It’s me. Come get me, Gerard. Please._

What he does is hang up the phone.

~*~*~*~

They’re close to Phoenix House when Ryan pulls a small package out of his pocket and says, “I got you something.”

Spencer takes the package, examining the newspaper that’s wrapped around it and folded at each end. “It’s not my birthday.”

“I know.” Ryan keeps watch as Spencer unwraps the pen, one of the good kind that should last for a long time. “It’s for your class.”

“I might not get a place yet.” Spencer draws a line on the back of his hand, then looks up and says, “Thank you.”

“You will, _and_ you’ll pass.” As always Ryan’s confident that Spencer will achieve his goals, and is prepared to support him in any way possible. Of course, his main objective remains getting Spencer to go home, but until then, Ryan’s going to be Spencer’s number one fan.

“There’s still time for you to sign for something,” Spencer says. There’s no hesitancy in his comment, and Ryan has to admire his tenacity in broaching the subject. “If you don’t want to do literature try something new. Like home EC.”

Ryan gives Spencer a sideways look, imagining the disaster if he actually tried to learn how to cook. “You want me to learn cooking? Really?”

Spencer considers a moment. “Maybe something less dangerous, like lion taming.”

“Funny, I didn’t see that on the sign up list,” Ryan says, amusing himself by picturing lions prowling the corridors of Phoenix House, and then sitting in the room that’s been assigned for the classes. “I’d look good in a lion tamer’s outfit.”

“I’m glad you’re thinking about looking your best when you die.” Folding up the newspaper wrapping, Spencer pushes it into his pocket, but keeps hold of the pen, gripping it tight as they come into sight of the centre.

That his anxiety is rising is all too obvious, and Ryan says, “You know you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“I know,” Spencer says, and then repeats, “I know,” but more certain this time, frustration showing as he kicks at a discarded soda can, sending it clattering against a wall. “It’s just. I don’t know if I should even be doing this, it’s not like things will change if I eventually get my GED.”

“Says who?” It’s one of the times where Ryan wants to utilize every platitude he knows and tell Spencer that things will get better, and that the world is his for the taking. He pushes that urge aside, well aware that as much as a rose-colored world makes for good talking, the reality of the situation is well known to them both. That doesn’t mean Spencer gets to give in, and Ryan says, “You need to stop being a pussy and learn some math. Whatever happens after that happens.”

“That’s your big motivational talk?” Spencer asks, but he also seems amused, smiling as he clips his pen to the neck of his t-shirt, so it’s on show front and center. “You kind of suck at them.”

“You got the message didn’t you?” Ryan says, and really, however it’s given, that’s all that matters.

~~~~~

Spencer getting a place was always about space. With such a small room available to teach in, and a teacher who can only handle a small number of students, it came down to numbers, and where you were on the list.

Spencer gets in. Just.

“Oh fuck.” Spencer’s staring at the sheet he’s been given, one that lists class times and a syllabus for the next few months. “I’m really doing this.”

Proving he is the best friend ever, Ryan doesn’t actually bring out his best Homer Simpson impression, but he does push Spencer in the direction of the volunteer teacher, who’s standing close to the coffee and tea table, answering questions along with Brendon. “Go talk to her, I know you want to.”

“I guess.... Yeah.” A short pause and Spencer goes, joining the group of other new students, who seem to be veering between apathetic and excited. Briefly, Ryan considers the possibility of getting past them to grab a cup of coffee, but he suspects it’ll be almost impossible right now. Not without getting entrapped in a discussion about books and homework and multiple other things Ryan wants no part of.

He turns, heading for one of the empty couches and lowers himself down, slumping in the corner and relaxing to a backdrop of chatter.

“Hi.” Ryan opens his eyes and sees Brendon, who’s smiling as he holds out the Big Bird mug. “Can I sit down? I brought you coffee.”

Ryan holds out his hand. “You could have sat even without the bribe.”

“But bribes always make things easier,” Brendon says, and takes a seat at the opposite end of the couch. Toeing off his sneakers he brings up his feet and sits with his legs crossed, so he can rest his own coffee against his knee while talking to Ryan. “They’re all talking numbers, I left before my brain short-circuited.”

Ryan cranes his head, spotting Spencer in the middle of the crowd. “It looks like things are going well.”

Brendon beams. “They are. When Lindsey let me run with the program I was terrified, but it’s all come together. Even if it means I don’t get much sleep. Between school and my regular counseling sessions and arranging this I’ve been getting by on a few hours. Which is fine, I don’t mind but I could do with more zees.” Brendon stops talking then, looking sheepish. “Sorry, I’ll stop now, I know I talk too much sometimes.”

It’s a point where Ryan could say that isn’t true, but as far as Ryan’s concerned, it is, and he stays silent.

“I see you agree.” Brendon’s laughing, seemingly unconcerned about Ryan’s lack of response. “You’re not the first and won’t be the last. So instead of me going on, how are you doing?”

While it seems like a genuine inquiry, Ryan’s isn’t sure how he’s supposed to reply. Or even if Brendon’s asking casually or as part of his official role. It’s why he settles on, “I’m fine.”

Brendon looks keenly at Ryan, but seems to take the answer at face value. “Good.” He takes a drink of coffee, drumming a beat out of his knee with his fingers, and then says, “I told Lindsey she should look into buying a new coffee maker, one that makes espressos.”

“You’re really going to talk about coffee?” It’s not the most polite of questions, but Ryan can’t help thinking that Brendon’s luring him into a trap somehow. Yet another official who makes nice with small talk before dropping the big guns that destroy Ryan’s life.

“I could talk about the weather, or sports, but I don’t really follow them that much and I don’t know if you even have a TV or....” Brendon trails off, his head in one hand. “Fuck, I’m so bad at this.”

“You kind of are,” Ryan agrees. “Are you sure you’re actually cut out to be a counselor?”

Brendon groans, and looks at Ryan through his splayed fingers. “I hope so, paying for school is costing a fortune, and I really love the job.”

Ryan believes what Brendon’s saying, enough that he says, “You’re not that bad. Spencer likes talking to you, and you asked how I was. I just didn’t want to tell you.”

“At least you’re honest about it.” Brendon flashes a smile and leans back, sprawled out and quiet. Which is what Ryan wanted, but now it doesn’t seem right. Even if Brendon does talk too much, there’s no debating the fact that he works hard, and has the best interests of Phoenix House at heart.

They’re qualities Ryan admires, and he stares at Brendon, debating if he can trust him enough to ask about Mikey.

Brendon looks directly at Ryan, meeting his gaze. “I do talk too much, but I’m also a good listener. Promise.”

“So I’ve been told.” Making this decision shouldn’t be so hard, but Ryan’s become used to keeping things hidden. This time though, this isn’t Ryan’s life, but someone who’s still there to be saved. Ryan’s all too aware that if Mikey stays on the streets for much longer he’ll be lost to the lifestyle, and Ryan doesn’t think he can watch that happen again.

He’s already done so once at first hand, where as hard as Ryan tried, Spencer stuck around, and now he’s lost too. It’s something Ryan’s aware of always, that when he went down he dragged Spencer down with him. Which wasn’t fair -- isn’t fair -- because unlike Ryan, Spencer’s done nothing to deserve this.

And neither has Mikey. Making a decision, Ryan says, “If you knew something that could get someone off the streets, would you use it?”

Brendon seems surprised at the question, but instead of jumping in with an immediate stock answer, he says, “You need to tell me more, but my initial reaction is yes.”

“It’s not my story to tell.” Ryan pictures Mikey’s face as he talked about Gerard, and it’s that more than anything that prompts him to go on. “But I have a friend. Well, sort of friend, I don’t know him that well. But he’s new around here, really new. And the way he looks.... You know some johns like certain types, yeah?”

Brendon nods, says simply, “Yeah, I know.”

“Okay, good,” Ryan says, glad that he needs no more explanation. “This friend stayed with us last night, and he’s having a hard time right now, and he told us about his brother, and the city where he lives. At least, the city where he used to live. He might not now, I don’t know.”

Brendon puts his mug on the floor and pulls up his knees, leaning forward and resting against them. “You’re thinking of contacting him? Have you thought this friend could have left for a reason?”

“He did.” Again Ryan’s picturing Mikey, how bone weary he appeared as he touched on the details of Gerard’s addictions. “But he misses him, you can tell that. And someone needs to do something before Mikey hits rock bottom.”

Brendon’s looking past Ryan, lost in some thought, then pulls back his attention and says, “I think the most important question is, how would you feel if someone did it to you?”

It’s something Ryan hadn’t considered, and he imagines how he’d feel if someone went behind his back and contacted his family or old friends, even if it was for the best of intentions. “I’d be furious.”

His expression somber, Brendon says, “It sucks, but I think that has to be the answer.”

Ryan’s still got an objection, a faint hope that Brendon will say what Ryan wants to hear. “The situations aren’t the same. He doesn’t deserve this.”

Immediately Brendon says, “And neither do you.”

Ryan looks down, uncomfortably aware of Brendon watching, and says, “Yeah. Yeah I do.”

~*~*~*~

Hearing Gerard has stirred up memories Mikey’s been keeping well buried.

There’s so many they’re tumbling together, bad mixed with good, and Mikey’s head feels like it’s bursting. Longing for relief, sleep or even a quiet moment, he keeps circling the hospital, incapable of leaving the area.

As angry as Mikey is with Frank, he knows they have to talk. Frank’s too important for Mikey to simply walk away with things as they are. The problem is, gathering enough energy to initiate that talk.

Mikey has to explain, and he needs Frank to listen. But truthfully, Mikey’s scared. He’s already lost so much, seeing disgust in Frank’s eyes would be the final straw. Not that he will. Mikey tells himself that when he’s not angry Frank will see reason, and understand Mikey’s choices.

He has to, and as he reaches the entrance to the hospital yet again, Mikey abruptly changes direction, going in through the front doors.

“Mr Way. Mr Way, I need to talk to you.”

Mikey’s almost past the concession area when he hears his name being called, and for a moment he considers hurrying away and pretending he didn’t hear.

“Mr Way. Mikey. It’s imperative we talk.”

Mikey stops walking next to a display of paperback books. His stomach sinking, he takes a deep breath and then retraces his steps to the main reception desk, where Mr Troy from finance has been calling his name.

“Mr Troy, hi.” Mikey’s holding on to the edge of the desk, propping himself up. “You wanted to talk.”

“If you could come over here.” Mr Troy indicates an area to the side of the desk, somewhere away from the passing traffic. Reluctantly, Mikey takes a few steps to the side, steeling himself to be told of yet more money he owes. “It’s about Mr Iero’s bill.”

“I’ve got money.” Mikey pulls folded up ten dollar notes from his pocket, holding them out on his outstretched hand. “I know it’s nowhere near enough, but I’ll get more, promise.”

“Thank you,” Mr Troy says, taking the money. Without counting, he keeps hold, his expression sympathetic. “But that’s not all we need to discuss. Saint Mary’s has always prided itself on being there for those in need. We recognize that life gets tough, that’s why we provide subsidized medical care and payment via plans. But one thing we must insist on is we do get paid at some point, and that means leaving a current address when people are discharged. When I called the one on file I was told you were no long living there.”

It takes a moment for his meaning to sink in, and Mikey reaches out, his hand against the wall as he says, “Frank’s been discharged?”

“Last night,” Mr Troy says, his sympathetic expression fading, as if he suspects Mikey of playing some game. “I assumed that you knew.”

“No,” Mikey says faintly. He tells himself that it can’t be true, Frank wouldn’t just get up and leave. Without another word, Mikey turns and runs, dodging past people as he pushes open the doors to the stairs. Taking them two at a time he’s gasping for breath by the time he gets to Frank’s floor, and runs headlong to his room.

Where there’s someone lying in bed. Someone who’s not Frank.

~~~~~~

Standing off to one side, Mikey’s in no mood to talk to anyone tonight. The thought of carrying a conversation, of actually forming words something he’s in no mood to do. Already he’s blanked every greeting, from Bob and Ray, even from Ryan who Mikey owes for last night.

Mikey doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about anything right now. If he doesn’t care he doesn’t hurt, and Mikey’s tired of hurting. If he could he’d drink to forget, but that means spending money that Mikey needs to save. So instead he’s taking solace in isolation, welcoming the numbness as he stands in one place and waits to be bought.

“Hey, you, the pretty fag, come here.”

Mikey startles, becoming aware that a car has stopped close by, a john yelling out of the open window. Slowly, Mikey walks forward and leans in, says by rote, “I can give you a good time.”

The john leers, and says, “I want to fuck you, how much for that?”

“One hundred.” Mikey’s still leaning into the car, and underneath his apathy his instincts are screaming that this john is wrong. There’s no obvious reason to think so, just a feeling, one that normally Mikey would act on. Except, lately he’s been shown that his instincts mean nothing, and Mikey adds, “If you want to go to a hotel it’s ten extra.”

“Yeah, not going to happen. I’ve heard about this place, the alley will do.” Turning off the engine, the john gets out of his car, following Mikey to the alley. To get there he has to pass all of the others, but he deliberately looks forward, not meeting any of their gazes.

“We need to go further back,” Mikey says, leading the john further into the shadows. When he’s far enough away from the mouth of the alley, Mikey turns. “How do you.....”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. The john jumps forward, grabbing hold of Mikey’s shoulders and throwing him hard to the ground. Hitting hard, Mikey’s teeth clatter together and he’s barely got time to take a breath when the john straddles him, his knees planted on Mikey’s arms, holding them down.

“This is what’s going to happen,” the john says, and he wraps his hands around Mikey’s throat, digging in his thumbs as he hawks up phlegm and spits in Mikey’s face. “That’s because you’re a whore, and I spit in the face of whores before I fuck them. Bare back, and you’re just going to take it.”

For a moment Mikey doesn’t react, just lies frozen, feeling spittle run down his cheek. Then he gasps for breath, needing the air to fight back. Because even if he does sell himself for money, one thing Mikey will never do is go bare back.

“No,” Mikey rasps, his throat burning and vision greying as he struggles to free his arms. He tries harder, manages a louder, “No,” but his fight is exciting the john. Abruptly, the john sits up and in a practiced movement, unfastens Mikey’s belt and pants, then grabs hold of his shoulder, flipping Mikey so he lands on his front.

His cheek scraping across the ground, Mikey tastes blood in his mouth and his shoulder is burning as the john pulls on his arm, keeping him off balance. Mikey keeps struggling, kicking back as he feels his pants yanked down, and the sound of the john unfastening his own belt.

“That’s it,” the john says, his voice deepened. “I like it when you struggle. Struggle harder little whore.”

Mikey tries, but the john is bigger and heavier and is holding Mikey’s arm at an increasingly painful angle, bones grinding together as he straddles Mikey’s body, his cock hard against Mikey’s back.

It seems inevitable what’s going to happen, but Mikey’s not going down without a fight, and he bucks up, putting every ounce of effort into getting enough room to take a deep breath and yells, “Help!”

He hopes it’s enough, it has to be, because Mikey’s got nothing left, his world going dark as he feels his arm snap.

And then, thankfully, the sound of running footsteps.

~~~~~

“Hey kid, you with us a bit more?”

Opening his eyes is an effort, but the woman who’s talking is insistent, and from the sound of her voice is standing close by. Finally, Mikey manages, and finds himself looking up at a ceiling. He blinks slowly, trying to bring the world into focus.

“I knew you were in there,” the woman says, and there’s the sound of her moving, then Mikey’s glasses are being put into place. “There, that’ll be better.”

It is better. Now that he’s wearing his glasses Mikey can see the smudges of color on the ceiling are actually painted on scenes and he manages to say, “Is that Rorschach?”

“I thought he was an appropriate choice to watch over my patients.”

Mikey struggles to think, his thoughts sluggish. “Patients?”

“You’re in my clinic.” The woman touches Mikey’s shoulder, and he turns his head in her direction, taking in the woman’s smile, and dark hair pulled to the side with a red ribbon. “I’m Lindsey, I’ve been looking after you.”

“You’ve already told him that.”

It’s a surprise to hear Ryan, and Mikey looks past Lindsey to sit him standing close to the door. Ryan’s clothes and hands are blood stained, and the harsh light of the room bleaches out his skin, making the shadows under his eyes stand out sharply.

“Mikey wasn’t really with us before,” Lindsey says, her tone casual. “The painkillers won’t be helping either.”

Mikey feels his heart speeding up, anxiety hitting as he tries to understand exactly what’s happened.

“You got beaten up a bit,” Lindsey says, and for moment the lines of her mouth tighten. “You’re going to be sore for a while, but you got lucky. The worst you’ve got is a closed fracture of the wrist.”

Mikey doesn’t feel lucky. He feels lost and fuzzy-headed, but most of all stupid as he remembers going off with that john, when his every instinct said not to. He looks along his body, trying to wiggle his fingers which seem swollen where they’re sticking out from the end of a white cast.

“That’s just a temporary one,” Lindsey says, gently touching Mikey’s fingers. “You’ll have to get it changed later.”

“Okay,” Mikey says, and Lindsey’s curled her fingers around his. It’s a contact that feels good, one where someone’s touching without wanting sex.

Lindsey smiles, and reaches out with her free hand, grabbing a clipboard. “While you’re with us, I need some details. Ryan gave us your name but more would be good. Like next of kin details.” Mikey remains silent, long enough that eventually Lindsey says, “It’s okay. If you don’t want to tell we can work around that.”

“It’s not that.” Mikey doesn’t want Lindsey to think he’s being deliberately tight-lipped, especially when she’s being so nice. It’s just. He’s got no idea what to say. Eventually, when the silence stretches, he knows he has to at least try. “I don’t know where my next of kin is right now, and I think he hates me anyway, because I did stuff. And he thought I’d cheated on him, but I hadn’t. I wouldn’t even think about cheating, I love him too much.”

It’s more than Mikey ever meant to say, but it seems like he can’t stop talking, the words tumbling out as Lindsey keeps hold of his fingers. “I don’t even know if Frank is my next of kin, it could be my brother, but the only thing he cares about is getting fucked up, so there’s no point listing him.”

His eyes prickling, Mikey squeezes them shut as Lindsey says softly, “It’s okay. I’ll put unknown for now.”

“Can he come home yet?” Ryan steps forward, taking a place next to Lindsey. “You’ve done everything you can for tonight.”

“I wish you weren’t in a position to know that so well,” Lindsey says, and then, “Yeah, he can go home once I’ve pulled together some antibiotics and painkillers, then bring him back in a few days. If I’m not here Jon will change the cast then.”

Mikey’s eyes are heavy as he wonders if the Jon Lindsey mentioned is the one from Saint Mary’s. Mikey thinks that it could be, and tries to formulate connections that keep failing, even a question beyond him right now. But what Mikey can do is picture Frank, the mention of Jon prompting memories that dig in, and Mikey lets his eyes close, hoping to escape through the sleep that still threatens.

“Isn’t he volunteering here tonight?” Ryan asks.

A last squeeze and Lindsey loosens her grip on Mikey’s hand. He listens to her walk away, and the sound of doors being opened as she says, “Not tonight. He called earlier, said he’s got himself a roommate who’s moving into his spare room.”

“Oh.” It’s all Ryan says, but it’s enough that Mikey hears the slight disappointment and he forces his eyes open and looks over at Ryan. Which is when Ryan’s former words actually sink in, realisation making Mikey feel cold and suddenly wide awake.

“I can’t go home, I’ve got nowhere to go and no money.”

“You have.” Ryan takes Lindsey’s former place, and while he’s not holding Mikey’s hand, he does briefly touch his shoulder. “You have that last fucker’s money, all that he had. While Bob and Ray kicked the shit out of him I stole his wallet.”

Thank you doesn’t seem like enough, but it’s all Mikey’s got, and he says, “Thank you. For saving me and for that.”

“You can thank me by buying breakfast tomorrow.” At Mikey’s blank look, Ryan says, “You’ve got money and a place to go, because you’re coming home with me.”

Relief hits hard, but still Mikey has to ask, “Spencer won’t mind?”

“You’re one of us and we take care of our own,” Ryan says. “So no.”

~*~*~*~

 

When he finally wakes up the next day, Ryan almost immediately goes out, looking for Pete. It takes almost an hour to find him. Even longer to explain how and why he’s needed to watch Mikey, and then to get back to the room. Where they find Spencer watching Mikey, who’s curled up asleep on the bed.

It’s not an ideal situation having them here. Even if Ryan does trust Pete, and has no reason to mistrust Mikey, he’s still leaving them in his space. In Ryan and Spencer’s _home_ , and that feels weird. Not that it’s their only option, the previous night they’d discussed taking Mikey with them, or taking him to stay with one of the others, or even that Spencer could miss his first class or go there alone.

Not that there’s a chance that Ryan would let those last options happen.

It’s why they’re walking to Phoenix House now, leaving Mikey still sleeping and Pete curled up and reading beside him. Something Ryan agreed to and logically knows is just fine. Still, he feels jumpy, like his skin is stretched too tight and nerves jumping.

Spencer gives Ryan a sideways look. “They’re not going to rob the place you know.”

“There’s nothing to rob,” Ryan says, and that’s true, there’s nothing of actual value to anyone but Ryan or Spencer themselves. Not that he’s even considered Pete taking off with the shoebox of old pictures or Mikey to run away with the spare clothes.

If he’s truthful with himself, Ryan knows this feeling has got everything to do with Spencer. How this class could be a step toward leaving. Something Ryan wants more than anything but dreads at the same time.

Spencer’s been at Ryan’s side always, a constant from the first day they met. They have lifetimes of memories between them, and right now Ryan’s thoughts go back to the past. Those first days of term when Ryan left his house carrying his new school bag and lunch pail, and saw Spencer along the street doing the same.

Except this time there’s no new bag or packed lunches. There’s just Spencer holding his new pen and, when they finally reach Phoenix House, hesitating at the entrance as if reluctant to go in.

Breaking the moment, Ryan says, “My offer still stands, if anyone is mean to you I’ll punch them in the face.”

As expected, Spencer laughs. “I’ll remember that.”

“Good.” Ryan pushes Spencer forward and then goes inside first, knowing Spencer will follow. “I’m going to grab a coffee while you coo over numbers.”

Spencer raises an eyebrow. “Coo, really? It isn’t me that had a love affair with a dictionary. _That_ was cooing.”

“That was research,” Ryan replies, walking at Spencer’s side until they reach the door of the classroom. When they do, Ryan takes a step back, standing next to a lurid orange poster advertising the new poetry slam. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

“I know,” Spencer says, unexpectedly pulling Ryan into a brief hug. “I’ll see you when I get out.”

“Not if I see you first.” Ryan waits until Spencer’s inside, then turns, about to head for the common area when he sees Brendon and Jon, who’re watching from the end of the corridor.

Approaching, Brendon says cheerfully, “They grow up so fast.”

While Ryan’s sure he’s being joked with, at the same time, Brendon being part of the staff means Ryan’s unsure of his response. Something Jon seems to get as he says, “Ignore him, he thinks he’s being funny.”

“That’s because I am,” Brendon announces, and casually drapes his arm over Jon’s shoulders, propelling him forward. “And to show I’m also generous to a fault. I’ll get the coffee.”

Ryan decides to take Jon’s lead and says, “I guess he’s still trying to be funny.”

“He is.” Jon smiles at Ryan, leaning in close. “Between you and me, he’s still failing.”

“That’s because neither of you appreciate my witty sense of humor,” Brendon says, grinning as he looks between Ryan and Jon. “But I’m still going to get your coffee, because I’m nice like that.”

Ryan watches as Brendon hurries away, heading for the table at the back of the common area. “I think he needs to be cut off from coffee.”

“You’re not the first to think so.”

At this time of day the common area is empty, all the couches in their starting places and their cushions lined up and perfect. Later that will change, the people who use the center creating their own groupings to talk or watch the old TV in the corner.

Looking around, Jon heads for a couch close to a window, and then sits, making himself comfortable as Ryan does the same.

Ryan’s taken the opposite end, and sighs as he relaxes against the soft cushions, tired after a night of getting Mikey home and ensuring he’s okay, and that Spencer’s also taking his own antibiotics. For once it’s Ryan acting as nurse, and while he’s more than capable, and doesn’t mind the effort involved, it is tiring.

“Rough night?” Jon asks, and then almost immediately he says, “Sorry, you don’t have to tell me. I mean, I’m not asking for details or anything.”

Jon’s stumbling over his words in his haste to take back his question, as if he’s said something to offend. Ryan hurries to reassure him, hating seeing Jon look so worried. “You can ask, I don’t mind. But it’s nothing to do with me, just a rough night for a friend.”

“Are you talking about Mikey?” Brendon’s holding three mugs, two in one hand and the Big Bird mug in the other. Holding out the two towards Jon, Brendon says, “Lindsey was telling me about him this morning, how he’d been beaten up. How is he?”

“By a john, yeah.” Ryan scowls, remembering hearing Mikey yell, and running into the alley to find him unconscious, the john poised above him with his pants at mid thigh. “He’s okay, we left him in bed sleeping. Pete’s watching him.”

“I hope so,” Brendon says, all trace of happiness gone for the moment. “Mom always said when you’re sick sleep.....”

“Are you talking about Mikey Way?” Jon cuts in, and Ryan realizes that he’s made no attempt to take the mugs from Brendon, and has also gone pale. “Skinny with glasses, lives in tight pants and a band t-shirt?”

Brendon puts down the mugs, and sits on a low coffee table opposite Jon. “You know him?”

“His boyfriend was at Saint Mary’s, I was his nurse for weeks.” Jon turns to Ryan, says, “It is him, isn’t it?”

Ryan wishes he could say no, do something to wipe the look of dawning dismay from Jon’s face. But he can’t, and he says, “Yeah.”

“Fuck.” Head in his hands, Jon sits still for a moment, then looks up. “I need to go home and tell Frank.”

Ryan’s putting pieces together in his head. How Mikey’s Frank had left the hospital and how Jon was moving someone into his spare room. “Frank’s your new roommate?”

Jon nods. “He was close to being able to leave and needed someplace private to think things through. So I offered him my spare room.”

“He needed to think things through?” Ryan can’t help feeling angry, picturing Mikey’s face as he recounted Frank’s words, and last night, when the effects of powerful painkillers brought down his walls and allowed his feelings of rejection to slip out. “Did he tell you what he said? Or what he accused Mikey of doing?”

“He said he reacted badly and said things he shouldn’t have.” Jon’s remained calm against Ryan’s anger, color returning to his face as he says, “He feels guilty for that, and think about it Ryan. There’s fault on both sides.”

Anger surging, Ryan snaps, “You think Mikey’s at fault for going out and working the street? When he was so desperate for money.”

“No.” Jon meets Ryan’s glare, not looking away. “I’d never judge anyone for that. But the way he told Frank wasn’t ideal.”

“I don’t think there is an ideal way to tell someone you’re a hooker.” His anger fading, Ryan tries to think of things from Frank’s perspective, when he was sick, stuck in hospital and being told his boyfriend had been selling his body. When he thinks of it that way Ryan can understand some of his anger, but not all. “What he said was still a dick move.”

“I’m not disagreeing with you. And if you ask him, Frank would agree too,” Jon says and looks at his watch. “If Lindsey asks tell her I’ve gone to see Mikey. Is there anything I need to take? Like food or meds?”

“No.” It’s an instinctive response, one made as Ryan realizes that Jon is starting to stand, apparently intending to go now. Which is something that can’t happen, because even if Jon does know Mikey, and only has his best interests at heart, Ryan’s immediate reaction is to close ranks. “You’re going now?”

“I intended to.” Jon sits back down, looking at Ryan. “Is that a problem?”

Ryan tries to think what to say, how to get Jon to stay away, even for a short while. Especially when there’s no real reason why Jon shouldn’t go to see Mikey, except for one thing. That Mikey needs a warning, and time to make his own decisions before being confronted with Jon, and by association, Frank.

In the end all Ryan can say is, “Mikey’s fucked up right now. He needs to sleep.” An excuse that’s so flimsy it could be bypassed in seconds. “You could go see him tomorrow.”

Jon doesn’t reply for a long time, but eventually he says, “Someone’s watching him now?”

“Yeah.” Hating how Jon looks so worried, Ryan tries for reassurances, hoping it’s enough to buy some time. “He’s okay, he’ll heal.”

“Okay, I’ll wait,” Jon says. “But I am going to see him tomorrow, and I am going to tell Frank when I get home.”

It’s enough for Ryan, and he nods, then turns to Brendon when he asks. “This is the person you were talking about yesterday?”

Ryan has to think for a moment, as he works out that the conversation he had with Brendon really was yesterday, even though it feels like days have passed since. “Yeah, shit like this is why he needs to get out.”

“He will,” Jon says, sounding determined, and even if Ryan wants to tell him it’s not that easy, he’s relieved that Mikey’s got friends on his side.

Lost in thought, Brendon says, “This could be the right time to get in touch with his brother.”

“You mean Gerard?” Jon asks, and at Ryan’s nod, Jon says, “It’s too late for that. Frank’s already called him.”

In a way Ryan’s relieved, and hopes it’s a good thing and that Gerard coming here is the hand Mikey needs. But he’s also aware of the dangers, because Brendon was right. Mikey did have good reasons for running, and Gerard coming here could break him even further.

All Ryan can do is hope that it doesn’t.

~*~*~*~

“I guess it’s true, like does attract like,” Spencer says, scowling at Mikey. “If you go out tonight you’re an idiot. But you’re going to anyway, because you’re just like Ryan, cracked in the head.”

“Spencer calling you an idiot is the way he shows that he cares.” Ryan finishes fastening Mikey’s shoelace and then moves on to the other. “But you know your money will be down, and that I’m not about to let you out of my sight.”

Mikey does know he’ll lose money, it’s hard not to when even the simplest of things leave him hurting, and some things will be impossible due to his bruises and cast. He’s also grateful that Ryan will be sticking close by, even if he has been weird all day, looking at Mikey like he wants to talk before closing his mouth with a snap.

“I know,” Mikey says, wiggling his fingers and examining the bruising that creeps from under his cast. “I guess I should leave the sling off.”

“You need to leave it on until you get there at least,” Spencer says, and picks up a fracture care leaflet from the stack that’s piled on a shelf. “You read what this said, keeping the sling on helps the swelling.”

“Plus, some johns get off on the whole injured thing,” Ryan says, and eyes Mikey’s hair. “Want me to try and do something with that?”

Confused, Mikey looks at his reflection in the window, seeing that while his hair is a bit dirty, it’s no different than usual. “It’s supposed to look like that.”

“At least that means one less thing to grab from storage tomorrow,” Spencer says, his mouth curling up at one side. “You obviously don’t need a brush.”

Surprising himself, Mikey laughs, and for the first time in forever he feels like his old self for the briefest of moments as he jokes back. “Some people don’t brush their hair fifty times a day.”

“Fifty two,” Ryan says, tugging at Mikey’s t-shirt so it’s sitting just right. “He adds two for luck. Have you taken your pills? And you, Spencer?”

“Yes mom,” Spencer says with a grin.

“Yeah,” Mikey says, and right at this moment, he can believe that someone actually does care.

~~~~~

It turns out Ryan is right.

Mikey does make less money. In the few hours he’s been here he’s managed two blow jobs that have left his face aching, an off balance hand job and one fuck, which Mikey got through by mentally repeating that he’d chose this, that he was the one in control.

It helps that the others are so close. Ryan doing as he said and watching always, standing at the mouth of the alley when Mikey goes in, while both Bob and Ray are attentive. To the extent of taking up menacing positions when the hand job john protested Mikey’s clumsy technique and threatened non-payment.

Them being there helps with the cold and the pain that’s breaking through as the painkiller wear off, and Mikey’s left struggling to hold on as long as he can. He’s getting close to giving in and going back when he sees another john approaching, this time on foot.

As always they all go into action, assuming their poses and roles in the hope of attracting attention. Aware of how battered he is, Mikey hopes for another john who gets off on bruises, or some kind of sympathy vote, and he watches the john get closer.

The john has his hands deep in his pockets, his head down and shoulders rounded, but even so. Mikey’s stomach sinks as he approaches, disbelief striking hard as he prays that he’s not seeing who he thinks.

It’s a futile hope, and Mikey knows it. No matter how long it’s been, how many months since he’s seen his brother, Mikey would recognize him anywhere, even in the dark and at this distance.

“Gerard,” Mikey says quietly. The word feels wrong in his mouth, made awkward when previously Mikey said the name often, Gerard a consistent center of Mikey’s world. Until he wasn’t, and Mikey’s had to fight to live through that loss.

And now Gerard’s here. When Mikey’s standing on a street selling his body, bruised and broken, lubed up, with the taste of come in his mouth.

Mikey needs to run. Now. Before Gerard can see him, but is physically unable to leave. The truth is, Mikey needs to see Gerard. To talk to him and hear him speak, to have him close enough to physically touch.

“Mikey?” Ryan’s act drops as he looks over to Mikey, the slink going out of his walk as he moves close. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Gerard.” Mikey’s staring, watching Gerard get closer, and it feels like his heart is beating out of his chest. “He’s supposed to be at home. He can’t be here.”

“That’s Gerard?” Ryan sounds stricken, and reaches out for Mikey. “Jon said he wouldn’t be here until tomorrow.”

“You knew?” Abruptly, Mikey pulls away from Ryan. “You knew and didn’t tell me he was coming?”

“I only found out earlier today.” Ryan’s looking between Mikey and Gerard, who’s close now, and is starting to look up. “I was going to tell you. Frank called him.”

It’s yet another betrayal, and Mikey’s kicking himself for thinking he’s worthy of trust. He keeps taking steps back, and then, from over the road, Gerard looks in Mikey’s direction.

“Mikey?” Gerard’s eyes widen, his first word barely audible, then he’s yelling, running across the road. “Mikey. That’s you. Oh fuck. I’ve found you at last.”

Gerard’s got his arms outstretched, reaching for Mikey.

Mikey turns and runs.

~*~*~*~

It should be impossible to lose Mikey. They’re all fitter than him right now, but somehow, they manage to do so.

Ryan feels guilty, hating been part of deception, even if it was by mistake and not actual intention. Arriving back at Fifth after searching, he finds Bob and Ray, who’re standing either side of Gerard.

In the half hour since he’s been here it looks like Gerard’s aged years. Wild-eyed, he keeps looking back at the alley as if expecting Mikey to run back out, but Ryan knows that he won’t. Back there are too many small streets to get lost in, and multiple places Mikey could hide.

“I need to keep looking.” Gerard’s addressing Ray, who’s got his hand on Gerard’s arm. “Mikey’s my brother, I need to find him.”

“And you will,” Ray says, and even if he doesn’t know the full story, it’s one that’s been repeated enough that Ryan knows he’ll be putting pieces together.

“But not by running around here by yourself.” Bob’s got his jacket zipped high to his neck and shoves his hands in his pockets. “You’ll get yourself killed and won’t help anyone.”

Gerard starts to move, as if thinking of breaking free from Ray. “I can’t just stop looking and go back. He needs me.”

Ryan agrees. While he’s seen Gerard for all of a few frantic minutes before he ran off to try and find Mikey, it’s enough that Ryan’s confident he’s not the man Mikey was forced to fun from. Trusting his own snap judgment, Ryan says, “I’ll take you to the center, he could have gone there.”

“And we’ll put the word out,” Bob says. “Someone will see him.”

“When they do someone will find you.” Ray squeezes Gerard’s arm and then looks toward Ryan. “You okay with this?”

It’s a question that blankets a lot, but Ryan can truthfully say, “Yeah,” and then, to Gerard, “Come with me.”

At first they walk in silence, but that’s not going to last. It’s obvious Gerard’s got questions, and eventually he says, “You’re Mikey’s friend.”

As lead ins go it’s not what Ryan expected, or technically a question at all, but Ryan still tries to think of an answer. How to explain that while he’s known Mikey all of a few days and known of him for just a bit longer, he does call him a friend. It’s just how it is between the people Ryan knows, where friendships are forged fast and life is lived on a day to day basis. Explaining that to someone on the outside will be complicated, and in the end Ryan settles for, “Yes.”

“I’m glad he’s got you.” Gerard lapses into silence again, and then says, “How is he?”

This is the question Ryan expected, but even so, he’s angry at Gerard for asking. There’s multiple replies going through Ryan’s head, but restricts himself to saying, “He got beaten up by a john last night, how do you think he is?”

Gerard visibly flinches at Ryan’s choice of words. “I know, stupid fucking question.”

Ryan doesn’t feel guilty for what he said, or for the anger that he’s feeling, but Gerard’s sadness is all too apparent, along with his confusion at being in a situation so out of his control. It’s why Ryan says, “He’ll be okay, physically anyway. Lindsey’s a good doctor.”

“Lindsey?” Gerard prompts, and Ryan checks over the road, looking for the car he knows will be waiting.

“Stay here, I’ll be right back.” Leaving Gerard, Ryan runs across the road, approaching the driver’s side window. It rolls down slowly, and one of Walt’s men holds out his hand.

Silently, Ryan hands over nearly half of his earnings, protection money and a tiny amount toward the overall debt he owes Walt.

The man in the car takes the money, slipping into a bag, and then starts the engine as he addresses Ryan. “I’ve been hearing rumors about new meat on your block. As it seems to have slipped your mind to keep us informed, I’ll tell Walt. I’m sure he’ll be wanting to recruit.”

“You can tell Walt to stay the fuck away from him.” It’s a stupid thing to say, threats against Walt never end well. But right now Ryan doesn’t give a damn, and he turns away without another word.

“I never meant to hurt him, you know.” As soon as Ryan gets close, Gerard starts talking, launching from a point that seems to bear no relation to what was mentioned before. “I was so caught up in my own shit I didn’t notice, and when I did he’d already gone.”

It’s a story Ryan’s heard before, parts from Mikey and Pete and countless others who work on these streets. Where the details may be different but the common bond is that somewhere, at some point, someone didn’t care.

“Sometimes the worst hurt is caused by not seeing,” Ryan says, and all the while he’s watching Gerard, taking in his reactions. “You’re not using anymore.”

“One hundred and twenty seven days now,” Gerard says, his hint of pride vanishing as he keeps talking. “I wish I could say it happened because of Mikey leaving. But it didn’t. It took a few weeks after that. Even more until I could persuade Linda to admit Frank had called her a few times.”

At Ryan’s blank look Gerard explains, “Linda’s Frank’s mom. She busted my ass the first time I went to her place.”

“She sounds like a good mom,” Ryan says, keeping his own envy hidden.

“She is,” Gerard agrees, and then says. “It’s me that fucked up.”

“But you’re making it right now,” Ryan points out. “That’s what you have to hold on to.”

“That’s hard to do when Mikey’s still missing,” Gerard says, and when Ryan shivers he starts to unfasten his coat. “It’s fucking freezing. You should wear this.”

Ryan sees the diversion, but still, Gerard’s words reminded him how cold it actually is, even as he says, “I’m okay.”

“It looks like it.” Gerard slips off his coat, and underneath he’s wearing a hoodie. “I’ll be fine in this, take it.”

Ryan’s not about to say no. Taking the coat he huddles into its warmth, zipping it up to his neck and pulling his hands into the sleeves. “Thanks.”

Gerard flashes a smile and then says, “Before, you were talking about Lindsey.”

“She runs Phoenix House, She’s awesome.” Ryan could also say that she’s scarily smart, intimidating, and has saved both his and Spencer’s lives, but he won’t. That would be exposing more of Ryan than he’s comfortable with right now.

“We’re going there, right?” Gerard says. “What is it, some kind of hospital?”

Ryan thinks about the center and how it’s so important to so many people. A safe place that seems to stretch and grow always, becoming what’s needed. “It’s a clinic, well part of it is. There’s also a residential unit and meeting rooms and anything else that Lindsey thinks that we need.”

“And you think Mikey will be there?”

“He could be,” Ryan says, and hopes that it’s true.

~~~~~~

Mikey isn’t, but he’s one of the few that’s not.

Sitting on a couch with Spencer and Jon, Ryan watches Lindsey talk to Gerard while Frank paces the room. Each time he makes a circuit past Ryan, Ryan frowns, and eventually Spencer says, “Giving him the evil eye won’t change things.”

“He’s a good guy.” Jon looks past Spencer toward Ryan. “And he loves Mikey, a lot.”

Ryan wants to dispute that, allowing residual anger to take over, but he’s aware that a lot of that anger is misplaced. Frank an available focus when most of Ryan’s targets are internal, or out of his reach.

The next time Frank walks past Jon reaches out, grabbing his arm and says, “Sit down before you fall down.”

Ryan expects Frank to sit on a different couch, or on the low table, but he squashes himself into the gap between Jon and Spencer. He lands hard, like once he was given an excuse to stop it was impossible to stay upright.

Jon studies Frank, whose breathing is labored. “You should have stayed home.”

“Not going to happen,” Frank says shortly. Despite the chill there’s a sheen of sweat on his face, and Frank’s hand trembles as he goes to wipe it away. “I need to find Mikey and make things right.”

“Then you shouldn’t have said what you did in the first place,” Ryan says, the words bursting out, but he’s not about to say sorry.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Frank yells back, and it feels like the whole room goes silent, every person looking their way as Frank repeats, softer, “I know that, and when I find him I’m going to say sorry, and then kick his ass for being so stupid.”

Spencer reaches to the side, his hand on Ryan’s leg, as if reminding him not to react badly. Not that Ryan intends to when it’s all too apparent how much Frank cares.

“Don’t kick him too hard, I only put him back together last night.” Clutching a mug of coffee, Lindsey sits on the coffee table. She’s wearing a hoodie over pajama pants and her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, but she also looks wide awake as she looks significantly at Gerard until he walks over and sits too.

“I wish you’d teach me how to do that,” Jon says, sounding impressed.

“Work here for a few years and you’ll learn,” Lindsey says with a smile, and then, “This is what’s going to happen. I’ve called Brendon and he’ll be here soon. When he is we’ll go out and search in pairs. I’ll take Gerard, Ryan, you go with Jon and Brendon will stay here with Frank and Spencer.”

Both Spencer and Frank start to protest, but Lindsey holds out her hand, stopping them mid-word. “Neither of you are fully fit and I need someone from staff to stay here.”

“That makes no sense,” Spencer says, matching Lindsey’s look with one of his own. “My arm’s okay and I’ve been out every night since, I can go out and look for Mikey.”

“If he can I can too,” Frank says, and starts to struggle up.

“No you can’t.” Spencer cuts Lindsey off as she starts to speak and gently pushes Frank back. “You’re on the verge of dropping now. You stay here with Brendon and I’ll go search with someone else. That way we’ll cover more ground.”

Lindsey nods slowly. “You could ask Alicia, I heard music from her room when I came past so I know she’s awake.”

“That works,” Spencer says, and looks from Frank to Gerard. “We’ll find him.”

“We will,” Ryan agrees, and then stands.

~~~~~~

Spending time with Jon feels weird. Ryan’s not used to being alone with someone who doesn’t work on the streets, and while he knows it should make no difference, he can’t help feeling it does.

It seems like there’s part of Ryan’s life he should try to keep hidden. Where even if Jon knows what Ryan does and helps out at the center, he’s never actually been an actual part of the streets. For that Ryan’s thankful, but also left floundering, unsure what to say.

For a while they’ve been walking in silence, following a route that takes in an area with derelict buildings and also, only streets away, a strip mall, both of which have plenty of places to hide yourself away. Methodically checking each doorway they pass, Jon suddenly says, “You don’t have to censor yourself around me.”

“Yeah, I do,” Ryan says, and not only for Jon’s sake. Ryan likes being around someone who doesn’t know everything, the details of what Ryan does and allows to be done to him in return. It makes Ryan feel almost normal, and the only way to maintain that is to keep part of himself pushed to one side.

Jon gives Ryan a long look, then says, “My cat climbed up the curtains last night. Then she wouldn’t come down, just sat there yowling.”

“That’s because cats are evil,” Ryan says with conviction. “Dogs don’t climb curtains.”

“But they do eat your slippers.” Jon sighs, sounding mournful. “I liked those slippers, they were comfortable.”

“They weren’t knitted were they?” Ryan can’t resist asking, and is pleased when Jon laughs in response.

“No. I haven’t found any awesome ugly slippers yet.” Jon pouts exaggeratedly, his eyes gleaming as they walk. “Obviously I need to learn how to knit.”

“You’re a nurse,” Ryan says, tucking down his chin into Gerard’s jacket against a cold breeze. “You know how to sew, knitting should be a cake walk.”

“I don’t know about that,” Jon says, a grin breaking through. “But I am an awesome nurse and that means awesome fingers. I’d probably be able to knit a mohair sweater dress in a day.”

“I’m sure it’ll look lovely on you.” Ryan manages to hide his own smile for all of a few seconds, and then he’s laughing with Jon too, relishing these moments where what he does isn’t relevant at all.

Of course it’s something that can’t last. Even if they’re not talking about Ryan they are looking for Mikey, and there’s no hiding from just why he ran. Still, it takes a long time before Jon changes the subject and says, “How long have you actually known Mikey?”

The question is hesitant, as if Jon’s unsure about asking, but Ryan’s got no problem replying when the focus is Mikey. “Not long. Pete got to know him first, and a few days ago I said he could stay with me and Spencer.”

“The day he told Frank.” Jon’s utterly serious now, his brow furrowed as he says, “You invited him back without knowing him.”

Ryan could tell about passing it on, and how at the start Pete was there for Ryan and Spencer, but that’s not a story for now. Tonight is about Mikey, and Ryan says, “He needed a place to stay.”

Jon’s staring at Ryan, as if he can’t look away. “You’re a special guy, Ryan.”

Awkward, Ryan hides behind glibness. “That’s what they all say,” but Jon’s not looking away, is still staring at Ryan like he’s something worth seeing. Eventually Ryan says simply, “Thank you.”

~*~*~*~

“You’re kind of predictable,” Pete announces, and drops down on the bench next to Mikey. “Not that I’m complaining, it’s too cold to be wandering around. But you do realize how dangerous it is here at night?”

“There’s been five johns in the toilet already,” Mikey says, not looking at Pete. “And I think someone’s having sex in the bushes.”

“Probably.” Pete slides along the bench, fitting his body against Mikey’s. “I’m taking this as you wallowing and not some death wish, because if it’s that I’ll be pissed.”

The warmth of Pete’s body feels good, and Mikey sags against him as he says, “I don’t have a death wish.”

“So you’re wallowing, I can deal with that.” Pete puts his arm around Mikey, holding him close. “I bumped into Alicia and Spencer, they told me some details.“

“They told you that Gerard’s here?” It’s something Mikey’s still having trouble believing. When he thinks of it now he’s half convinced that seeing Gerard was some hallucination. Except that deep down Mikey knows that it wasn’t. He can remember every moment, how Gerard looked and sounded, and the most damning of all, there’s no way a hallucination could cause so much hurt.

“They told me.” Pete curls the fingers of his free hand around Mikey’s, rubbing them gently. “Running is a scary thing, likes tongues against ice, sometimes you get stuck.”

Mikey picks through the words, trying for meaning. Then admits, “I don’t get what you mean.”

“I mean that sometimes things can change, and that while it’s okay to be scared, it’s also okay to go back.” Pete rests his head against Mikey’s shoulder, a human blanket against the cold. “Don’t make my mistake, don’t be afraid to fight for your home, wherever that is.”

That’s something Mikey does understand, and he admits, “I miss them both. Frank and Gerard. So fucking much.”

“Good,” Pete says, and squeezes Mikey tight before standing. “Because I called the center and said you were here. Now you can tell him that too.”

Pete slips away into the darkness, and Mikey’s left looking at Gerard, who’s approaching slowly, as if afraid Mikey will run off again. Since the last time he saw him Gerard’s lost his coat, and is wearing a hoodie, an old one of Mikey’s.

“I didn’t think you’d mind.” Gerard’s closer now, and he indicates the hoodie with his hand, never looking away from Mikey. “I found it in your room, under the bed.”

“I couldn’t find it,” Mikey says, and it feels like the world around him is fading, the only thing that matters Gerard. “You can keep it if you want.”

Even closer now, Gerard’s only a short distance away, and Mikey can see that his eyes are wet, Gerard’s throat moving as he swallows and says, “Mikey? Oh god, I’ve missed you so fucking much.”

And all Mikey can do is reach out, waiting as Gerard runs the last few meters and falls to his knees, gathering Mikey in a tight hug and holds on.

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~~~~~~

Every time he’s allowed himself to imagine talking to Gerard, Mikey’s never set the meeting in a park. Especially one in the middle of the night, where they’re both freezing and Mikey’s aware of the people lurking in shadows.

The best thing to do would be to get up and go, but Mikey can’t seem to do so. He’s huddled in close to Gerard, sharing body heat and luxuriating in being so close to his brother.

“We need to get out of here.” Gerard sounds as reluctant as Mikey feels, but he sits up and starts to pull off his hoodie, revealing a t-shirt underneath. “Put this on first.”

Mikey shakes his head. “You’ll get cold, you should be wearing your coat.”

“I gave it to Ryan.” Gerard bundles up the hoodie, and against Mikey’s protests, feeds it over his head. “Arm in, then we can get out of here.”

The hoodie is one of Mikey’s old favourites, and pulling it on reminds him of home, and especially of Gerard. “This smells like you.”

“I forgot to put on deodorant,” Gerard says, busy tucking the empty arm of the hoodie into its pocket.

Mikey gives Gerard a look. “You wear the stuff now?”

“Fuck off,” Gerard says easily, and then his face falls, as if he’s realized what he’s just said. “I don’t....”

“I know.” Mikey cuts Gerard off, hating that what was so comfortable has become instantly awkward. “I’m not running again.”

“Thank fuck.” Gerard wraps his fingers around Mikey’s arm, as if unable to stop touching. “These last months without you have sucked, I missed you every day.”

It’s what Mikey’s needed to hear, but that doesn’t mean that everything is fixed. The reasons he left are still hanging, and Mikey says, “I hated you when I left.”

“I don’t blame you,” Gerard says, his voice bleak. “I hated myself too.”

That Gerard thought that way isn’t a shock, but Mikey needs to clarify details, and he grabs hold of Gerard when it looks like he’s about to step away. “I hated the person you were when you used, but I never stopped loving you. Ever.”

“I’ve stopped,” Gerard says. “The drinking and drugs. I know it doesn’t fix everything.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t.” There’s no way it can. Mikey’s changed too much, even before he ended up selling his own body, and that’s another thing he has to address before he loses his nerve. “I’ve been working the street, Gerard. Selling myself to strangers for money.”

“I know,” Gerard says. “It doesn’t make a difference.”

Mikey can’t agree. It does make a difference, a huge one, because Gerard doesn’t know what Mikey’s actually done. Which is why Mikey needs to tell him, so if Gerard’s disgusted he can walk away now, while Mikey still remembers how to pretend not to care. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

Gerard puts his arm around Mikey and says, “So tell me.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

“They found Mikey,” Pete announces, appearing around the corner as if he was sure Jon and Ryan would be there. “At least, I found him, but he’s with Gerard now.”

“Is he okay?” Jon asks, sounding relieved. “I can go see him now, I have to.”

Pete shakes his head, pulling his hands up into his sleeves. “His brother’s got it covered. I stayed and watched for a while to make sure.”

“He’s not going to run off and leave Mikey?” As much as Ryan trusts Pete he still has to ask, vowing if Pete hesitates at all Ryan’s going to go and find out for himself.

“I don’t think so,” Pete says, and then amends that to, “No, he’s not. I’ve got a feeling.”

It would be easy to dismiss Pete’s feeling, but it’s enough for Ryan, and he knows that for tonight, Mikey’s going to be safe. Which means all Ryan has to do is find Spencer and then head off for home himself.

“See you,” Pete says then, and he pulls Ryan into a quick hug, doing the same to Jon before hurrying away.

Jon looks at his watch, and as relieved as Ryan is that Mikey’s been found, he’s also disappointed that his time with Jon has to be close to an end.

“It’s late,” Jon says, and Ryan’s waiting for him to say that it’s time to go home. “But there’ll be diners open, if you want something to eat.”

It’s not what Ryan expected, and unsure of where this going, all he can say is, “I need to get back.”

“It’ll be my treat,” Jon says, “If you’re worried about paying.”

“I’m not.” Ryan starts to walk, frustrated that money’s been mentioned. It’s enough to spoil the formally easy atmosphere, something so insignificant enough to show the differences between them. “I can pay for myself, I don’t need your charity.”

Jon steps in front of Ryan, stopping him from walking. “Buying you a coffee isn’t charity. It’s me not wanting to go home.”

Ryan makes a move to get past Jon, needing to get away before Jon sees that Ryan’s meant for the streets only, and not easy friendship. “Then go back to the center, there’ll be people there still.”

“You’re not going to make this easy are you?” It sounds like Jon’s more talking to himself, even though he’s looking directly at Ryan. “I don’t want to go back to the center. I want to spend more time with you. And if you don’t want me to buy, fine, we can just keep walking.”

“You want to spent time with me?” It’s something Ryan’s still having trouble understanding, but he does like Jon, and eventually Ryan allows. “I suppose one drink won’t hurt. But I’m buying.”

Jon smiles, says, “Deal.”

~*~*~*~

His arm wrapped in a plastic bag, Mikey’s been soaking in the tub for over an hour.

The hot water eases the aches in his body, and he’s relishing feeling so clean, but mostly he’s stalling when he has to see Frank. Not that Mikey doesn’t want to -- he does, a lot -- but it means yet more confrontations, and right now Mikey doesn’t feel ready.

He needs just a little more time, hidden away in this anonymous hotel room with Gerard, where Mikey’s been able to gather his strength, and also sleep well, for the first time in what feels like forever.

“I got you some clothes,” Gerard says, entering the bathroom. Setting them on the cistern, he hovers close to the door, and even through the blur of a world without glasses, Mikey can see Gerard’s face fall.

“They’ll all heal.” The bruises on Mikey’s chest stand out starkly, bubbles lapping against them as Mikey moves his hand in the water. “A few weeks at most.”

Gerard sits on the edge of the tub, not moving when bubbles coat the side of his pants. Reaching out, he rests his fingers against Mikey’s damp shoulder. “Frank’s just sent me a text, he’s on his way over.”

Mikey abruptly sits up, water cascading onto the floor and over Gerard. “He’s coming _now_?”

“I stalled him as long as I could.” Gerard grabs hold of Mikey’s glasses, handing them over as he says gently, “You need to talk to him, Mikey.”

“I was going to, just not right now.” His glasses on, the world comes back into focus, and Mikey’s facing the fact that Frank will be here any minute. It’s not giving Mikey enough time to work out what he wants to say and how to explain, or to prepare himself if all Frank wants to do is say his goodbyes.

“What if he can’t handle what I’ve done?” Mikey says, voicing his fear.

“Then he’s an asshole who doesn’t deserve you,” Gerard replies instantly. He stands, brushing off stray bubbles and takes hold of a towel. “But he will cope, because he’s head over heels for you. Always has been.”

It would be easy to pick holes in Gerard’s statement, but Mikey doesn’t, instead clinging to the reassurances of his big brother. “I need to get dressed.”

“Yeah, you do,” Gerard agrees, and holds out the towel.

~~~~~~

With Gerard’s help Mikey’s fully dressed when there’s a knock at the door.

Sitting on the bed, he makes no move to answer, worry striking hard. Mikey jumps when Gerard stands and ruffles his hair, says, “Things will be fine. I promise.”

Mikey wants to believe him, but the fear of potential rejection is clinging as he worries at the bedcover with his thumbnail, snagging a thread.

A last concerned look and Gerard opens the door.

“You fucking, idiotic, moronic bastard.”

It’s the worst start Mikey could imagine, Frank yelling as he pushes the door wide open and stands staring at Mikey. Making a move toward him, Gerard freezes in place when Jon steps into view, shakes his head and mouths, ‘no.’

“Why the fuck did you run from Gerard? Or not come to Jon’s when he found you? I’ve been waiting for you.”

“I didn’t want him to know what I’d been doing, and I didn’t know if you even wanted to see me.” While Mikey’s not yelling he’s getting annoyed at Frank for reacting so badly, and especially for not getting why Mikey’s been so afraid of them meeting. “The last time you saw me you told me to get out.”

“Because you’d just told me you’d been hooking.” Frank kicks at the door and then takes a visual effort to relax, taking in a deep breath as he says to himself, “Fuck, this wasn’t supposed to go like this.”

“How was it supposed to go?” Mikey asks, and he’s staring directly at Frank, taking reassurance in the way he’s looking into the distance, the way he gets when he’s trying for the words that are important.

“It was supposed to be me saying I’m sorry, and that I’ve missed you like crazy and that you can never leave me again.” Frank takes a step into the room, wheezing slightly as he turns his focus to Mikey and states, “Whose arm do I have to break?”

“You’re too late,” Mikey says, flexing the fingers of his broken arm. “The john who did this had the shit kicked out of him already.”

Frank doesn’t react to the terminology, but he does say, “Good. I want to shake the person’s hand who did it.”

“People,” Mikey corrects, and he thinks about introducing Frank to Bob, Ray and Ryan, and all the other people who’ve become important so quickly. At first it doesn’t seem like a good fit, the two parts of Mikey’s life needing to be kept separate. But the more he thinks, the more he realizes that’s not true. While Mikey’s not proud of the things that he’s done, he’s not ashamed of the people he’s met, or that he went out to earn money when needed. “If you want I’ll introduce you.”

“I do want,” Frank says, and then, he’s running to Mikey, dropping to his knees for a hug that mirrors Gerard’s from the night before. Frank wraps his arms around Mikey and says, “I love you, so fucking much.”

Mikey sags in Frank’s hold, relief hitting hard as he says, “Love you too.”

~*~*~*~

The party for Alicia is supposed to be low-key, but somehow it’s grown into something that’s left the common area filled with balloons and home made banners, while the tables are covered with food.

Ryan hesitates in the doorway, taking in the crowds of people who’re settled on the couches and talking in groups. They’re all people he knows, and he spots Bob and Ray talking with Gabe, Pete perched on a windowsill, his black cat ears catching the light. Further back and Brendon’s dancing with Lindsey, laughing when she suddenly dips him to the floor.

Then, at the very back of the room, Jon, who waves when he sees Spencer and Ryan.

“Go and talk to him.” Spencer leans in close to Ryan, grinning as he says, “I know you want to.”

Ryan frowns, “I want to talk to everyone, I’m naturally gregarious like that.”

“Yeah, you’re really not,” Spencer says fondly. He looks around, then steps away from the doorway, waiting for Ryan to follow. “You told me about his cats last night. You hate cats.”

That’s something Ryan’s going to protest. “I don’t hate cats, they’re just inferior to dogs, and evil.”

“And yet you know the names of Jon’s and what they look like.” Spencer’s smile is wide as he sing-songs, “Someone’s got a crush.”

“I’m going to punch you in the face.” Checking that there’s no one around, Ryan says, “I’ve only talked to him a few times.”

“That’s enough to know that you like him.” All serious now, Spencer looks directly at Ryan. “There’s nothing wrong with liking someone.”

“Maybe.” Ryan can allow that much, but Spencer’s wrong. Even if Ryan has enjoyed talking with Jon, that’s as far as he’ll allow it to go. A crush something that’s pointless for someone like Ryan, and therefore something he won’t allow to develop.

“There’s no maybe about it,” Spencer says, and he sounds determined, sure of what he’s saying. “It won’t always be like this.”

“For you maybe.” That’s something Ryan’s known for a while, that Spencer will get out of this lifestyle, and when he does so he’ll leave Ryan behind. “I’m going to be a silver fox sex worker, or more probably, dead.”

“Fuck you, Ryan.” Spencer looks away, taking a deep breath, then whirls back around. “You don’t get to do that. I’m sick of the self-sacrificing bullshit, yeah, you owe Walt money, but you asked for it in the first place for me.”

Ryan doesn’t get why it’s an issue. What he did for Spencer he’d do again in an instant, and he says, “I wasn’t going to let them take you go to jail.”

“I know that.” Spencer’s shoulders slump, his anger draining away. “And you need to get it through your head that even if it was you borrowing the money from Walt, the debt belongs to us both.”

“It’s my name on the agreement,” Ryan says, and no matter how much Spencer says otherwise, that’s a fact that won’t change. “I’ll be here until I pay it off.”

“And you never will with the interest he charges.” Spencer rubs at his face, says, “You know how to bring a conversation down.”

“It’s my superpower,” Ryan says, and starts to head for the main room. “Come on, it sounds like they’re bringing out cake.”

Ryan’s thankful when Spencer follows, a conversation he hates having delayed once again. It’s better that way, because no matter what Spencer thinks, Ryan’s going nowhere. It’s just how it is.

Inside of the room, the conversation dies down when Lindsey climbs up on a table and whistles, loud. “Listen up everyone. I’m not going to make a speech.”

Gabe grins, yells, “Thank fuck for that.”

Seamlessly, while flipping Gabe off and flashing him her own grin, Lindsey goes on, “But I do want to thank Brendon for organizing this and to everyone who’s helped make this celebration happen. Bob, now.”

At her prompt, Bob walks forward carrying a giant cake, one that’s got _Congratulations_ written in black writing on the top, and a sparkler shooting off gold sparks in the middle. Setting it on a cleared off table, he stands next to Alicia, who gives him a fierce hug, leaving a lipstick mark against Bob’s neck.

“To Alicia,” Lindsey says. “For moving on and showing that it’s possible.”

The whole room erupts into cheers, Alicia smiling so wide that her face has to hurt.

“Thank you.” At first Alicia’s words are unheard, then she says again, “Thank you, I couldn’t have done it without this place.” Alicia blows a kiss toward Lindsey, then picks up a knife, brandishing it at the cake. “Ray, can you come and help me cut this?”

It’s a request Ryan understands, and one that feels right. That even if they can’t officially celebrate Ray paying off his debt to Walt, they can acknowledge it this way.

Ray makes his way through the crowd and takes a spot at Alicia’s side. Together, they take hold of the knife and make the first cut.

~*~*~*~

 

“You need to come home.”

It’s the first time Gerard’s stated that out loud, and Mikey can’t help wishing that Jon was still here, where his presence would delay a conversation that’s so badly needed. But also a one Mikey isn’t sure he’s ready to take part in.

Right now he’s not sure about anything. Things have moved so fast Mikey’s still trying to find his own feet, and making decisions right now seems impossible. But he does know one thing, and Mikey glances at Frank as he says, “Our home is here now.”

“No. It’s not,” Gerard says instantly. “But if you do want to stay, I’m moving here too.”

“You’d move?” It’s hard to imagine Gerard away from the city, but he’s nodding, and all Mikey can say is, “Why?”

Gerard flinches, running his hands through his hair. “I guess I deserved that.”

“It wasn’t meant as a dig,” Mikey says, and it feels like he’s groping in the dark, seeking the instinctive connection with Gerard that’s been severed by time and distance. “Your life’s back in New Jersey.”

“And so’s yours, and Frank’s,” Gerard says simply.

Too simply, because as easy as Gerard seems to think things are, he’s not seeing the full picture. That Mikey and Frank have a life here, and sure, it’s one that’s mostly fucked up, but Mikey ran for a reason. Plus, Mikey doesn’t know if he can even go back. Too many things have changed and Mikey can’t imagine how he can sleep in his old room, or look Linda in the face, or even leave the people who actually do understand.

Not looking at either Gerard or Frank, Mikey says, “I don’t know if I can go back.”

“Then I’ll come here.” Gerard sounds sure, insistent in a way he hasn’t been for a long time. “I’ll need to rent an apartment and call work, see if I can transfer, but that shouldn’t take long.”

“You’ve a job now?” Frank asks. “Doing what?”

“Working at Starbucks,” Gerard says, and for the first time in a while there’s a hint of a smile. “They were hiring and I needed a job, and the perks are fucking awesome.”

“Free coffee?” Mikey asks, trying to picture Gerard as a barista.

“You know it.” Gerard does smile then, for all of a few seconds, and then says, “I mean it, Mikey. I’ll move here if I have to. I’m not losing you again.”

Mikey believes him, and knowing that helps Mikey’s mind clear, allowing him to see where they actually belong. But he won’t say yet, because this isn’t just about Mikey, it never has been. He turns, looking at Frank, who’s been close at Mikey’s side since Jon left. “This is your life too.”

Frank’s got his hand resting on Mikey’s thigh, as if always needing to touch, waiting a long time before saying, “I don’t want to stay.”

Briefly Mikey considers suggesting they move elsewhere. Another town or city, making a new start yet again. Which is tempting, except for one thing. “It’s like tongues against ice.”

“The fuck?” Frank says, looking worried as he stares at Mikey. “Are you feeling okay?”

“No,” Mikey says, admitting that truth, but there’s also the feeling of relief, as he makes this final decision. “But it’s time to stop running.”

Gerard leans forward, and Mikey can feel his happiness, Gerard’s own relief as the connection between them seems to snap into place. “You’re coming home?”

“ _We’re_ coming home,” Mikey corrects, and links his fingers with Frank’s.

~*~*~*~

 

Ryan’s waiting for Spencer when Jon appears and sits down, taking the end of the couch. He’s holding a plate containing leftover cake, and hands it over to Ryan. “I brought you a corner piece.”

Ryan takes the plate, and picks off a chunk of fondant from the side of the cake. “I’m impressed you managed to find any left over.”

Jon taps at his nose. “I have my ways and means. Also, access to the staff refrigerator.”

“You’re giving away all your secrets.” Ryan tears the cake in half, and offers the plate back to Jon. “Share?”

Jon takes hold of one of the pieces and says, “I don’t mind you knowing.”

There seems to be something hidden in the statement, and Ryan eats another piece of fondant, trying to figure it out. Coming up empty, he eventually says, “How are the hell cats?”

“Still intent on world domination.” Jon’s tearing his own cake into small chunks, crumbs falling onto his lap. When he’s left with a handful of pieces, Jon frowns and drops them all on the plate, then says, “I’ve been talking to Spencer.”

Immediately Ryan’s wary, and he says, “About?”

“You,” Jon says, and then remains silent.

It’s the point where Ryan should prompt the conversation, asking questions or demanding Jon say more, but he’s not about to play that game and stays silent himself and waits.

It’s Jon that eventually breaks. “He said you used to read a lot, and liked to write.”

“I used to,” Ryan says, making a vow to kill Spencer as soon as he sees him. “I don’t do that now. So if you’re going to ask me to join in the poetry slam, don’t bother.”

“I wasn’t going to.” Again Jon stops talking, and all he’s doing is looking at Ryan. Then, suddenly, he says, “I know you don’t want to join, but what about going? With me.”

“You want to go to the Poetry Slam with me?” Ryan needs to clarify, because yeah, he enjoys spending time with Jon, but no matter what Spencer says, they’ve only spent a short amount of time together. “As a friend or....”

“A date.” This time Jon is decisive, and he turns on the couch so his knee is against Ryan’s.”I know you don’t really know me that well, but I like you, and things have to start somewhere.”

“I know enough.” It’s not that that’s Ryan’s problem, it’s that Jon doesn’t seem to understand who he’s asking. Ryan knows he has to say no, because people like Jon just aren’t meant for Ryan. “But I can’t, so sorry, no.”

“Can’t or won’t,” Jon asks, not accepting the answer. “Because if it’s can’t tell me the reason and I’ll tell you the solution.”

Ryan thinks about lying, and about how much simpler things will be if he simply says, ‘won’t’. His mouth open, Ryan plans on the lie, ending this right now, but somehow, finds himself saying, “Can’t.”

“Okay, good.” Jon seems relieved and rests his hand on Ryan’s knee. “Now, why not?”

“Because you volunteer here, and work at the hospital. Because you have cats and wear ugly sweaters and talk about TV shows that I don’t get to see.” They’re all reasons Ryan means, but the main one remains, “Because I sell my body for sex and you’re too good for someone like me.”

“Don’t you think I should be involved in that decision?” Jon asks, and then, “Also, that’s bullshit, because you’re just as good as anyone else.”

It’s not something Ryan can agree with, a few words unable to reverse years of believing the worst. But they are good to hear, and maybe, Ryan thinks, one day he will start to believe them.

“So,” Jon says, smiling at Ryan. “There’s a poetry slam on soon. Would you like to go with me?”

This time, Ryan says, “Yes.”

~*~*~*~

Mikey’s not expecting any kind of send off the day he goes home.

After a lot of talking, it’s been decided that he and Frank need to go back right away, and after claiming all their belongings from the storage unit, they’re safe in the trunk of the rental. But first, Mikey needs to say goodbye, and they pull up close to the doors of Phoenix House.

Going inside, Mikey looks for Ryan, who he knows is helping Jon take inventory, or Spencer who should be just getting out from his class. Neither are there, and inside it’s quiet, like the whole building is deserted.

Unsure if he should even be here, Mikey looks into the common room, and jumps when Brendon yells, “Surprise!”

Inside are Brendon and Jon, Lindsey and Alicia, Ray and Bob, Gabe raising his mug in salute and Pete, who launches himself at Mikey as soon as he steps into the room.

“You’re not getting away with saying goodbye, Mikey Way.” Pete hugs Mikey hard and then takes a step back, slipping off his cat ears and putting them on Mikey. “So you don’t forget me.”

  
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“There’s no chance of that,” Mikey says, and he adjusts the cat ears, knowing that while he won’t need them to remember, he’ll keep them anyway.

“Look after him,” Lindsey says, and hugs Mikey, then Gerard and Frank. “And yourselves. Drive safe and remember, Mikey, you need to get that cast checked in two days.”

“He will,” Frank says.

Gerard nods, says, “Yeah, he will.”

“Good,” Lindsey says, addressing Gerard. “I’ll be calling to make sure.”

Gerard looks pleased, and Mikey stores the information for later teasing. For now though, he needs to finish his goodbyes, and he looks past the group, hoping that Spencer and Ryan are close by.

“Looking for us?” Spencer eases past Bob and Alicia, and smiles before hugging Mikey. “You’re welcome to share our bed any time.”

Mikey says, “Thank you,” and then Spencer stepping away, Ryan taking his place. Mikey lets his arm drop, unsure if Ryan actually does hugging.

It turns out he does, and does them well. Ryan wraps his arms around Mikey, holding on tight, his body angled away from Mikey’s arm. “I’m glad you’re going back.”

“Me too,” Mikey says, and he tucks his head against Ryan’s shoulder. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

“You’re welcome.” Finally, they end the hug and Mikey’s surrounded by people who came through when he needed them. People who within days of meeting them he classed as friends. Seeing Frank and Jon bump fists and then hug, Mikey turns to Ryan. “He’s a good guy.”

“He is,” Ryan agrees, and even though he stops talking then, Mikey can hear what he leaves unstated.

“Before, Pete told me something, about tongues and ice, I can’t remember exactly. But the point was, don’t get stuck when you’ve got a chance to go forward.” Mikey hopes that Ryan gets what he’s saying, but at least Mikey’s tried. Now the rest’s up to Ryan.

Ryan looks over at Jon, tracking his movements as Jon talks to Gerard and Frank. Ryan turns back to Mikey and says, “I’ll try. I promise.”

“Good,” Mikey says, and knows that finally, it’s time to go home.

~*~*~*~

 **Epilogue**

“Ryan!”

Ryan hears Frank first, which gives him all of a few seconds to prepare before he’s suddenly engulfed in a hug from behind.

“I see we’ve found the right house,” Jon says, sounding amused as he gets out of his car, groaning as he stretches. “Do you know the roads to get here are crazy?”

“The worst,” Frank agrees, and then yells, “Gerard, Mikey, they’re here.”

Pointedly, Ryan rubs at his ear, and Frank laughs as he lets go and goes off to hug Jon and then Spencer, who’s yawning as he gets out of the car.

There’s the sound of a door opening and Ryan looks toward the house, seeing first Gerard, and then Mikey. In the ten months since he’s seen him Mikey’s filled out, the lines of his body softened and his hair has changed color. He also looks happy, and Ryan realizes that while Mikey did smile before, his happiness then was diluted. Now Mikey’s all but beaming, and also looks healthy, all bruising and pinched misery long gone.

“We thought you’d got lost,” Mikey says, moving in for his own hug. “You should have been here ages ago.”

“ _Someone_ let Ryan hold the map,” Spencer says, busy taking the bags out of the trunk. “We nearly ended up heading to Vegas.”

“Force of habit,” Ryan says. “And we didn’t actually end up there, so...”

“So you’re never being in charge of directions again,” Spencer says, putting his and Ryan’s small bag on top of Jon’s. “Lindsey says hi, by the way.”

“How is she?” Gerard asks, all too casual, prompting both Mikey and Frank to laugh.

“Like you don’t know.” Frank picks up the bags, frowning at Jon when it looks like he’s going to protest. “There’s no need for the nurse act, I’m healthy and have been for a long time.”

Jon holds up his hands, giving an easy smile. “Lead on then.”

It’s Gerard that leads them all back, going into the house he indicates a sofa and says, “It’s a pull out, I thought Spencer could sleep here and Ryan and Jon upstairs. That is. _Fuck_. I’m assuming here, you might want to swap.”

Ryan moves closer to Jon, and while normally they’re not overly affectionate in public, he takes hold of Jon’s hand, interlocking their fingers. “It’s okay, you assumed right.”

“Awesome.” Gerard sounds genuinely happy as he leaves the living room into the kitchen. Turning on the coffee machine he says, “I’m going to order pizza, is that okay?”

“Depends,” Ryan says, looking at Mikey. “Do we get to write on the lid after?”

Mikey smiles and says, “Always.”

~~~~~

Ryan wakes to a pitch black room and Jon plastered close in the queen bed. Too hot under the mound of blankets, Ryan pushes some back, and then hears a noise from downstairs. Lying still, he hears the sound again, and knows there’s no chance of going back asleep until he knows what it is.

Wiggling from under Jon’s arm, Ryan gets out of bed, his arms held in front of him as he makes his way out of the room, thankful that when he opens the door it’s not totally dark. The only illumination is a thin strip of light, bleeding from under a door, and Ryan takes a moment to place the room as the kitchen, before going downstairs.

Ryan opens the door, and finds Mikey standing at the kitchen counter, dressed in pajama bottoms and t-shirt, a mug held in his hands.

“Did I wake you?” Mikey says. “Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, I’m a light sleeper.” It’s something Ryan has to be, always aware of potential danger, even when he’s in place that’s supposedly safe.

“Do you want hot chocolate?” Without waiting for an answer Mikey takes milk from the fridge, pouring it into the pan that’s set on the stove. Adding powder, he stirs, his back to Ryan. “I used to wake up every night, and that was only after a few nights.”

If there’s one thing Ryan’s learned, it’s that there’s no only in his world. He’s seen people destroyed after working the streets once, and others who do it for years and still keep on going. People like Pete, and Ryan goes to look at the cat ears that are propped on the windowsill. “You kept them.”

“They’re my reminder to not get stuck.” Giving the hot chocolate another stir, Mikey goes to join Ryan, picking up the ears. “Have you decided what to do about Jon’s offer?”

“I don’t know.” It’s something Ryan thinks about often, he has done since Jon first offered him the money to buy himself out from Walt. “If I say yes he’ll have to get a loan. That’s a lot to ask of someone.”

“But he offered.”

It’s nothing Spencer hasn’t already said, and Jon, who keeps pointing out that he wants to do it, and at least his loan isn’t actually dangerous. But still, it feels like yet another step forward, and Ryan has to admit that he’s scared. “What if he does this and wants to leave later?”

“Then he’d go and you’d arrange to pay him back, the same as you’re going to now,” Mikey says, as if the answer is simple. Seeing the milk begin to bubble, he hands the ears to Ryan and goes back to the stove “You’re moving into the residential unit soon, it’s the perfect time to get away from Walt too.”

Ryan wishes he could be decisive and make a decision, but every time that he tries he imagines things going wrong. Spencer graduating his class then leaving, Jon finding someone new, the unit at Phoenix House being offered to someone else.

But it also means a fresh start, and Ryan reminds himself that even when circumstances suck, his friends always come through. From Spencer who’s been there from the beginning, to Mikey who drifted into Ryan’s life, and through texts and emails, is sticking around.

“There’s no whipped cream, sorry,” Mikey says, handing Ryan a mug. “But I added half the sugar bowl, just how you like it.”

Ryan takes a sip, and the hot chocolate is cloying in its sweetness, which means it’s just perfect. “I think I’m going to say yes.”

“Yeah?” Mikey says.

And even though Ryan’s terrified, half sure he’s making a mistake he says, “Yeah.”

“Good.” Mikey picks up his mug and taps it against Ryan’s. “To new beginnings.”

Together they drink.


End file.
